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G. DEARBORN # CO.’S STEREOTYPE EDITION. 


TRANSFUSION; 


OR, 


THE ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 



BY WILLIAM GODWIN, JUN. 


NEW, YORK: 

GEO. DEARBORN & CO., PUBLISHERS. 

SOLD I5Y OTIS, BIIOADERS & CO., BOSTON * DESILVER, 
THOMAS A CO., PHILADELPHIA ; AND COL- 
LINS, KEE3E & CO., NEW- YORK. 


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TRANSFUSION 


OR, 



THE ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN 


BY WILLIAM GODWIN, JUN. 


' JJlHI • * t 

iA 


NEW. YORK: 

GEORGE DEARBORN & CO., PUBLISHERS 

SOLD BY OTIS, BROADERS & CO. BOSTON; DESILVER, 
THOMAS & CO., PHILADELPHIA ; AND 
COLLINS, KEESE & CO., 

NEW-YORK. 





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TRANSFUSION; 


OR, 

THE ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


CHAPTER I. 

Haste, haste, he lies in wait, he’s at the door 
Insidious Death ! Should his strong hand arrest, 

No composition sets the prisoner free. 

Young’s Night Thoughts. 

The vale of death ! that hushed Cimmerian vale, 

Where darkness, brooding o’er unfinish’d fate, 

With raven wing incumbent, waits the day, 

Dread day ! that interdicts all future change ! 

Ibid. 

Have this scene before you, if a poor description may do it. Though 
it is but an humble cottage that occupies the foreground and presents the 
scene of action, Nature around this unassuming abode has been most pro- 
digal. Look far away to both the east and west, and see how mountain 
after mountain tops its neighbour, and climbs beyond the power of sight, as 
if these swellings of Old Earth were, indeed, to kiss the sky, but clothed 
in such mystery as God alone can weave to cloak the meeting from all 
human eyes. Survey the more gentle South, where first soft plains, par- 
celled out by ever-running streams ; and then bright uplands, giving a 
green reflection to the westward sun, present themselves. These are the 
fragrant places, where the denizens of yonder village— sweet Unwalden— 
waste their easy hours ; these are the honied spots /where tottering child- 
hood, upright maturity, and wavering old age, meet as one— the common 
creatures of a mother that has been bountiful to them. Surely this is a 
scene which claims to be always lovely ! Then how much more so now, 
when the bright sun is getting larger, as he gets lower, in the west ; when 
thin streams of purple, gold, and radiant crimson, stealing his rays, do 
homage to his parting ; when the light air knows no disturbance ; when 
the brisk birds, the lowing flocks, and all the tinier things of the creation 
speak their joy as Nature best has taught them. 

“ In the midst of life we are in death.” Look into that cottage, which 
occupies the foreground of all this pleasantness, and see how ill the scene 
there accords with what is extant without, Tread softly, as you approach 
the sick-bed, which may scarce be seen, so carefully has some kind hand 
excluded the severer rays of light. She that lies there, with death touching 
her cheek, and decay fining the thin veins of her wasted hand, is a mother 
— and such a mother ! Oh, think of the softest moments of care ; bring 
back, if they need it, to your recollections, the tenderest solicitudes that 
your own mothers have on deep-drawing occasions spent upon you ; such 


4 


transfusion: or. the 


as they were, under trials, have emanated from this mother on all occasions, j 
and ever. Trust me, this is a good parent, and needs not the iron hand of 
death for the closer drawing of those bonds of affection which are now 
about to be snapped asunder. Give a glance, too, at the gentle form that 
overhangs the bed where his parent is undergoing this mortal arbitrament 
with death. It is young Albert, who, as he props her pillow, answers each 
broken respiration of the sufferer with a tear. Mark how he gazes upon 
her murmuring lips, as though he would drink in each syllable before it had 
utterance ; and yet it is but pitiful foolery, for he hears her not ; nature at 
his birth killed this communing sense, and although art and practice have 
taught him to speak, he receives no reply but by signs. 

I have said that her lips murmured. Was it that her intellect failed her, 
or that her sight grew so dim that she could not see that only her poor deaf 
boy lingered by her side, and that the daughter of her heart was even at 
such a moment absent. Be it as it may, thus she spoke in scarcely audible 
sounds. 

“Press closer to me, children. Give me thy hand, my Madeline ; and 
sign to Albert to do likewise. Alas ! it is all weakness with me, or I my- 
self would have instructed the dear boy. Death is my bedfellow 7 , Made- 
line: I feel him pressing closer and closer, and I have not command of 
either soul or body to withstand his approach i Oh, children, now 7 1 feel 
the wrong that I have done ye. But why not your hand, dear Madeline ? 
Now I feel that in affording to myself the seltish enjoyment of shrinking 
from society, I have scared from you those friendly faces which should have 
supported you in such an hour. I have looked coldly on those neighbours 
that would have courted our love and companionship, and now there is not 
one to pay the last services of humanity — to promise me that, when I am 
nothing, my children shall still find protectors and friends. Why not yet 
your hand, Madeline ?” 

And then, as if rousing herself, to account for this omission, she opened 
her eyes and gazed around the curtained chamber. Poor soul, in vain ! 
The pang that she received at finding her wanting whom most she looked 
for, seemed to lend the dying woman strength, for, by a sort of convulsive 
half-unmanageable effort, she signed to Albert to tell her what had become 
of Madeline. 

“ By and by, mother — by and by she will be here,-’ was all the boy’s 
reply, for he dared not tell her how long his sister had been absent or how 
uncertain her return. 

“ I want my Madeline,” exclaimed the sufferer, in a way that left it almost 
doubtful whether she had attended to her son’s reply ; it sounded so like 
the mere vibration of a mind that had overstretched itself upon the impulse, 
and was fast returning to its former helplessness. 

Albert could not hear the sounds she uttered, but he interpreted them 
aright, for his own heart taught hirn the same words ; and even as his 
mother spoke, he whispered unconsciously to himself, “ 1 want my Made- 
line for he was as one unnerved and actionless by the fearfulness of the 
scene that pressed upon him. 

Again the poor sufferer murmured the name of her truant child. The 
keen eye of Albert (for ever where one sense is wanting, the others gain 
effect) took from the modulation of her lips the significance of the word. 
He released his hand from that of his mother, and stole gently— once more, 
stole gently to the casement, in the hope that the looked-for one might have 
arrived in sight. His eye rapidly glanced the whole scene ; — lovely as it 
was, to him it was but vacancy, for the form of Madeline occupied no por- 
tion of it. Still he would not be satisfied : overlooking the immediate plain, 
his eye ever rested on the brilliant upland (lighted to a dazzling green by 
the sun’s retiring ray,) for there he knew were his sister’s favourite walks. 


ORPHANS OP UNWALDEN. 


5 


But no Madeline yet ! Presently his eyes were strained, as though they 
would penetrate the thickly-studded copses that graced the hill-side : he 
marked the outlet of each winding path that gave egress from the clumps 
of trees, as though he would catch the coming shadow of her he sought. 
But still no Madeline ! 

What could this mean ? Was she ill? Was she astray? Had feet 
been untrue, and cliffs and torrents wide and fierce ?— All was one vast sea 
of confusion and distraction, and Albert still had to gaze— hoping, doubt- 
ing, despairing in succession, rapid as thought only can accomplish. 

It was true that, when Madeline had quitted the “Single Cottage” at 
noon, there was nothing in the appearance of her mother that denoted 
speedy dissolution. She had been ailing for days and even weeks, but had 
ever forbidden any notice of her condition to be carried to the neighbouring 
village. Madeline had pressed it upon her that very morning ; but the an- 
swer was, “ No, dear girl, I feel better to-day, and by to-morrow shall again 
be able to take my walks with you.” The smile of satisfaction with which 
this was said deceived Madeline, and she herself went abroad with a 
lighter heart than she had experienced for some days before. 

But in the afternoon a painful change took place. Albert was reading 
by his mother’s bed-side, consoling himself with the thought that she was 
in the comfort of a soft sleep, when a suppressed but hurried movement of 
the bed-clothes aroused him from his study. As he turned to look at his 
mother, he half-thought that he saw a head withdraw from the exterior of 
the window- but the action, if one, was so sudden, and his mind was so 
immediately called to other considerations, that it remained upon his im- 
pression little more than something fanciful and ideal. He looked at his 
mother, and agony had possession of every feature of her face : presently 
moan succeeded moan, and the body of the patient writhed as if to be free 
from some monstrous oppression that was paramount upon it. Before 
Albert recovered presence of mind to determine what course to pursue, 
there was something like a recovery of her senses, and she signed to him 
for water. To be brief— the actual fit was over, but it had left fearful 
tokens of its power ; and the mother from that moment felt that she was in 
the hands of death. Had her strength permitted, there would presently 
have been a melancholy scene to have marked the absence of Madeline ; 
but she had for the most part remained quiet, probably in the hope of gather- 
ing one last residue of strength to enable her to take a long farewell of her 
children. Yet still as she reclined upon her bed of pain, nature would 
break out, and she vrould call upon their names almost involuntarily. These 
were Albert’s trying times renewed : as often as he saw her lips move, he 
would flit to the window to look for the absent girl, and then as suddenly 
return to the bedside to take glimpses of the dear pale form, whose cheek 
he had so often kissed ; whose neck he had so often entwined in childish 
playfulness within his arms, and whose signs of instruction he had so often 
bowed before and reverenced. 

But the last asking for Madeline had been too painfully distinct ; — it had 
been followed up : — it had had its steps and its grades : — it had evinced a 
train of thought which Albert for some time had feared would arrive, and 
yet which he knew not how to meet. The poor boy was almost maddened 
by mingled terror and grief — for, as he stood gazing at the window, hope 
died away in sickly pangs, and his heart sunk within him— No Madeline 
was to be seen. 

At length he stole back again to his mother’s side. All was quiet and 
uninterrupted : she looked as if a gentle sleep had again overtaken her. It 
was the event for which Albert had wished, and on the instant he glided 
from the cottage, and might be seen tracing the plain with rapid steps to- 
wards the upland, on which he had so long gazed from the window. But, 
1 * 


6 


TRANSFUSION : OR, THE 


however swift his motions, they still gave evidence of the irresolution of his 
thoughts. Indeed, he scarce himself could have told what was his purpose : 
— it was impulse, rather than motive, that was thus dashing him along ; 
and the only formed idea that he possessed was the necessity of Madeline’s 
re-appearance to speak words of balm to her mother. For this he sped 
the plain — for this he was hurrying to the upland ; and though, had some 
strong hand suddenly seized him and detained his course, he would have 
struggled fearfully and from his soul to be released, he had hardly built to 
hirnself a hope to urge him to the effort which he was making. His was 
the act of doing something towards alleviation, with nothing but an unde- 
fined vagueness to carry it to the end. 

The little plain which he had to traverse to reach the upland, finished 
with a streamlet, fresh and sparkling as the remainder of the scene ; and 
across this had been constructed by the villagers a rustic bridge, barely 
wide enough for two to pass abreast, but protecting the heedless passenger 
in his crossing by means of a hand-rail on either side. Albert, on his 
arrival here, found the bridge occupied by a stranger of venerable but not 
very ancient appearance — though even thus much the stripling would 
scarcely have perceived but for after circumstances, for, on his reaching the 
bridge, he looked but once — saw it was not Madeline, and would have passed. 
The stranger, however, who seemed to have been gazing on the glittering 
sheet that fled beneath, either from idleness, or in that absence of mind 
which is attendant upon deep thought, suddenly looked up, on hearing the 
boy’s footsteps sound upon the wooden planking of the bridge, and, regard- 
less of the evident hurry of the new comer, placed himself so that the 
bridge was impassable. 

“ Gently, gently, my young friend,” said the stranger, as he perceived 
that Albert was going to use very little ceremony in effecting a passage — 
“ Gently, gently — spare a moment, if it is only that I may gaze on features 
with which, methinks, 1 might almost claim acquaintanceship, though I 

cannot Come, boy, let me have the privilege of age, and ask your 

name.” 

Albert, with no time to explain that he was unable to hear the observa- 
tions of the stranger, shook his head impatiently, in token of all parley 
being in vain, and again would have pushed by. 

The stranger was somewhat offended at the motion, which he naturally 
enough interpreted to signify the youth’s refusal to satisfy his curiosity; 
but, recovering himself in a moment, he cried, “Well, well, perhaps I had 
no right to demand ! But at all events, with all courtesy, I may, as a 
stranger, ask if you can direct me to the ‘ Single Cottage,’ which 1 under- 
stand to be in the immediate neighbourhood of Unwalden ?” 

Albert’s patience was exhausted ; and this time, not even deigning a 
shake of the head, he thrust the querist on one side, and rushed on for the 
upland with redoubled speed, while the stranger gazed at him on his eager 
course with a mixed sensation of wonder and resentment. 

Albert was unaware of the rudeness of which he was guilty. His mo- 
ther’s dying form was before his eyes, and the necessity of finding his sis- 
ter— of leading her to their parent’s side to comfort her— to hear her last 
injunctions— overcame every other feeling : he saw, he thought of none 
else ; and probably all that he knew about the interruption that he had 
iust undergone was, that a something had impeded his path, and that he 
had circumvented it in the best way he might. Having conquered this 
difficulty, he surmounted the rising ground, threaded the thick copses that 
graced its sides, and was still at his speed where the upland gradually in- 
creased into a hill. With panting haste the youth clambered up the pre- 
cipitous sides, and at length reached the top. Then how his neck stretched 
forward — how his eyes strained, as he stood on the very summit, and 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


7 


turned his gaze around to have the whole space it commanded within his 

f aze ! Still on Madeline ! — It could not be ! he would not believe it. He 
ad climbed the hill for her: — as he rose, his hopes rose with him, and 
there she was to be. Again and again he looked from side to side, and 
presently made the place resound with her name — “ Madeline ! Made- 
line !” 

“ Still no Madeline,” thought he, but with a strange revulsion in the 
tenor of his thoughts. “ I must have passed her in the deep copse. She 
must have threaded the Gipsy Brake, while I sped round by the Fairy Cir- 
cle. She must have gone a circuit by the mountain. She must have been 
loitering in the village. For home, then— for home !” 

These, and the like thoughts, were the work of a moment, and the next 
saw him again at his speed retracing the hill, the copse, the upland, the 
bridge, the plain. 

But the cottage threshold he could not for his soul pass at the same speed. 
There was a flitting thought that made him pause ere he lifted the latch ; 
and with a sigh, such only as comes from the heart of hearts, he crept on 
to the door of the sick room. 

He opened the door, and there was one kneeling at the bed of his mo- 
ther. Madeline then was come ! No,— it was a man ; and as the kneeler 
raised his head to see who entered, Albert recognised the stranger, who a 
quarter of an hour before had arrested his progress on the bridge. Under 
other circumstances, or at a more distant date, the youth probably would 
not have remembered him ; but the time elapsed was so short, and so 
strangely had he twice looked to see a well-known form in that of the un- 
known visiter, that the recognition was instant and unavoidable. 

The dying woman had also heard the door open. “ Madeline ! Albert !” 
cried she ; and the latter was at her bedside. He saw her lips move, and 
it was no difficult matter for him to guess the import of what she said. 
He crept closer and closer to her pillow, and by his own lingering kiss 
taught her to repay him in the like. 

Then there was a pause ; and to have looked upon the three was to have 
believed that a triad of death had been accomplished ; so motionless each 
limb — so solemn the silence — so mute the interval. 

The last rally came ; the dying woman somewhat raised herself, as if 
strength again was hers. “Henry,” said she, “dear Henry, as I may 
now say,” looking at the stranger with eyes where affection was contend- 
ing for mastery with the growing thickness, “ you have well arrived, and 
I feel grateful that I have been able to exchange some few words with you. 
To your care I bequeath my orphans : when you look on them, remember 
me, and — forget their father. It is all that I require to secure your unfailing 
affection to them. And — and — is it said ? — Yet a little ! — For a last office, 
give to Madeline, and in my name, as dear a blessing as 1 now give to you 
and this poor bereaved boy.” 

Another pause : — the sufferer sunk from her strength— her lips moved as 
if to repeat the farewell : her hands, as they rested on the bed, motioned 
as though in benison to Albert, and as he might best understand it — her 
eyes closed. A shadow rested on her face, and death took possession of 
that mortal tenement which was once amongf the loveliest that the earth 
ever knew. 


8 


TRANSFUSION : OR, THE 


CHAPTER II. 

Whilst 1 remember 
Her and her virtues, I cannot forget 
My blemishes in them, and so still think of 
T he wrong 1 did myself. 

The Winter’s Tale. 

Since every man who lives is born to die, 

And none can boast sincere felicity, 

With equal mind what happens let us bear, 

Nor joy nor grieve too much for things beyond our care. 

Like pilgrims to the appointed place we tend ; 

The world’s an inn, and death the journey’s end. 

Dryden, Palamon and Arcite. 

f es, she was dead! And oh, how entirely was that truth felt by the 
two who knelt beside her bed, and had w r atched the last sigh of her lips — 
the last tremor of her hands, and the last palpitation of her heart ! But to 
have looked at them would have been to think that they yet waited for 
another word, or for some still coming token of returning life. They 
watched by the bedside as if immovably intent on a hope that did not yet 
fail them. Yet their countenances belied such hope. In the stranger's 
face w r as all the solemn severity of a tempered but deep-felt grief ; while 
in Albert's the passion was more openly and undisguisedly displayed. 
But even in his the proper reign of sorrow was not yet established ; — he 
had shed no tear— he had burst forth into no vehemence of exclamation, 
and, instead of the relaxations of open-hearted grief, every lineament of his 
countenance was fixed, as though charged w ith one deep ungovernable 
feeling ; and. as he gazed upon the form that had once been a woman, he 
himself might, have been taken for something inanimate, but for the thick 
breath that he drew through his nostrils, whither it was forced to seek a 
passage by the strict compression of his lips. 

How long these two would have thus remained it w r ould be difficult to 
tell ; but suddenly a visiter broke in upon them, which, on the instant, 
aroused them from the horrid dream of their first grief. The latch of the 
cottage w 7 as heard to open, and a woman’s voice, that at other times would 
have struck upon the ear, soft and musical as the summer bird’s carol, 
trolled a few lines of a w r ell-known fairy song : 

Let us flit as bright as spring ; 

Let us nought but pleasures bring ; 

Let us teach the world to be 

Happy, blithe, and gay as we ! 

As the last line was given, the chamber-door was thrown open, and Albert 
on the instant recognised the form of his sister. It seemed as though the 
boy had waited for this signal for his tears to flow, for, on the moment, 
like a long pent stream, they gushed forth from his eyes, and, as he threw 
himself around his sister’s neck, the circumstances of the day forced from 
him, “ Oh, cruel, cruel Madeline !” 

The girl’s sudden entry from the full light of a brilliant sunset prevented 
her for the instant from seeing beyond the boy who thus greeted her ; and 


ORPHANS OF UNYVALDEN. 


9 


'Yvith an impetuosity of disposition for which she had always been remark- 
able, and which had ever been dreaded by her mother, she shook Albert 
from her with an angry exclamation at the presumption of a younger 
brother thus arraigning her conduct. The few words that had passed, 
however, was sufficient to explain to the stranger who the new-comer was ; 
and rising from the bedside, he approached her, and would have led her 
from the room. 

“ Madeline,” said he, “ the word was ill said ; but come with me, my 
child, and let me explain.” 

A second rebuke, and from the lips of a person whom she had never seen 
before, was not calculated to check her turbulent spirits. “ And you, too, 
sir ?” said she ; — “ Yvhat now, I pray ?” 

“ For shame, girl, for shame,” said the old man, in a hasty manner ; “ look 
on this, and let it teach you to soften your tone to the sorrow of the occasion.” 

As he spoke, the stranger drew back the curtain of the window, and the 
dying light of the sun struck directly on the pallid form that occupied the 
bed. It told the whole at once ; and with a suddenness too great for 
Madeline to sustain, she sank senseless at the feet of her monitor. 

But we have already dwelt too long in the abode of death. Let us now 
pass over a few days with a rapid, glance. The grief of the bereft orphans 
took its full vent ; and the only consolation that the senior, who by this 
time had announced himself, and Yvas received as their mother’s brother, 
could afford, was to join in their lamentations. To say that the sorrow of 
Madeline was greater than that of Albert would be wrong, but neverthe- 
less it appeared to be of a more harassing and distressing nature. She 
seemed to be continually reproaching herself with her ill-timed absence at 
the close of her mother’s existence. It was in vain that her uncle assured 
her of her mother’s tender recollection of her, even in the very agonies of 
death : it was in vain that he dwelt upon the tenderness of her tone, or 
depicted the affection of her countenance, when she transmitted to the 
poor girl her last and dearest blessing. Madeline would listen to his 
words in mournful silence, save when she burst forth into fresh and more 
copious exclamations of grief, or fruitlessly murmured to herself, “ Why 
not to me— why not to myself?” At other times she would make Albert 
point out the very spot on his burning cheek where his mother’s lips had 
last rested, and then fasten her own in the place, as if she would imbibe 
the spirit that had preceded her. Albert’s grief was more open and unde- 
filed with self reproach ; Yvith his pain, even when keenest, was mixed a 
soft and tender melancholy resting on the recollection of his mother’s 
calmness and undisturbed serenity, even in her most distressing moments. 
To temper the acuteness of his own feelings he had ever before his mind 
the picture of her placidity; and before many days had elapsed he could 
dwell with tranquillity — almost with comfort — on the memory of her 
manner: the kindness, too, with which she had looked upon this new- 
found uncle was a sort of balm to his wound, and he would sit and gaze 
at the stranger with a proportionate share of pleasure. 

At length the day for the funeral of their mother arrived. As on that of 
her death, the sun shone brightly, and the fields looked gay. When the 
procession issued from the cottage, and gained the open air, Madeline 
started, as if the broad glare of day was intruded in mockery of her sorrow, 
and she felt as if she could have welcomed the bursting of her heart, when 
she remembered (hat the last time the sun had shone upon her was on the 
day when she so heedlessly — or, as she herself would have termed it, so 
guiltily — absented herself from the cottage. 

When this sensation had abated, there was a strange medley of feelings 
in her heart She felt — she knew that this last act of consignment to the 
earth was the completion of all separation from her mother ; while the 


10 


transfusion: or, the 

corpse— only the poor corpse, lifeless, senseless, soulless, had remained in 
the cottage, the chain, though stretched to the uttermost, was not yet en- 
tirely broken ; there was yet a link of union remaining, and though it was 
the dreadful one which only binds the living to the dead— still it was a link ; 
and, as the drowning wretch will catch at a feather or a leaf that floats 
upon the billow, so Madeline would steal to the coffined remains of her 
mother, and, leaning over them, still fancy that she had not entirely lost 
her. But now even this hold was to be plucked away : custom claimed its 
prey, and the last demand of death was to be satisfied. With these feel- 
ings, the slowness of the procession was as the race-horse’s speed to her ; 
every yard of ground passed over, seemed to confirm the dreaded separation ; 
and, as much too soon as the law’s lame progress is for the spendthrift 
debtor, was the arrival at the spot where earth yawned for her accustomed 
allowance. But here crept in the incongruity of the poor girl’s sensations. 
The ceremony, too, rapid as it urged the inevitable separation, was all too 
slow, as it held her every faculty in aching suspense. Each step that she 
took onward gave a new feature to the one same scene in her sorrowing 
fancy : first, she would behold her death-striken parent searching arouud 
the room for the daughter, who should have been there to sustain her uneasy 
head — then the well-known voice, pronouncing “ Madeline ! my own dear 
Madeline !” would vibrate in her ear ; and anon a sad portraiture of her 
mother’s grief-tempered anger at her absence would creep upon her ; and 
though perhaps the moment before she had whispered to herself, “Oh! that 
this nearness to all that is left of her might endure for ever,” she would at 
these thoughts exclaim, “ An end — speedy, and at any price — to such pains 
as these.” 

The ceremony was concluded, and the mourners returned. On their way 
they were joined by a young man whose countenance well entitled him to 
the privilege of enlisting himself in their sorrowing party. Long did he 
walk by the side of Madeline ere she noticed him. Silence was on the four ; 
and as they paced along, it might have been imagined by the uninitiated 
passenger that they were some group stepped forth from the sculpture of 
ancient times, tipt with only so much of the Promethean fire as gave them 
power of motion. So pale and solemn was their show — so stealthy and 
unimpressive their retreat from death’s abode, that, could Holbein but have 
seen them, eagerly would he have seized upon their model to give a crown- 
ing spirit to his “ Dance of Death.” 

At length Madeline looked up, and saw by whom she was attended. 
The sight shook her as though something had thrilled her to the very core. 
“ Wahrend,” she said, “ away ! In all earnestness of heart, I pray you — 
go ! I give you no blame, 1 attach to you no fault, but between us lies 
more than half the wretchedness I feel. That I have lost my mother is 
Heaven’s good will ; but that I lost her without sharing her dying blessing 
with poor Albert, (oh! how much poorer I !) is either your reproach or 
mine ! Be it mine ! I will not argue otherwise ; but even so, I cannot forget 
that it was with you 1 wasted the precious hours which should have been 
spent at her bedside— with you, in idle talk, I lingered, when I should have 
been listening to solemn things. Leave me then, Wahrend ; for never again 
can I look upon you without remembering that our that day’s walk, how- 
ever innocently conceived, has robbed me of w&at ought to have been the 
most precious moments of my life.” 

Wahrend would have remonstrated ; but the vehemence with which 
Madeline gave utterance to these words, added to the recollection of the 
freshness of her affliction, taught him that it was wiser to reserve himself 
for a less agitated opportunity. He withdrew — and again silence overcame 
the three, till each was buried in the solitude of their respective apartments 
in the cottage. 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


a 


CHAPTER III. 

Tell me then the reason why 
Love from hearts in love doth fly ? 

Why the bird will build a nest 
Where he ne’er intends to rest ? 

Lord Rochester. 

It was not till nearly a month after the mournful day with which the 
last chapter concluded, that Wahrend ventured to present himself at the 
Single Cottage. Time had been at work, and ministered its never-failing 
comforts. The sorrows of Madeline had softened down into melancholy 
recollections, and those violent and overwhelming paroxysms of grief that 
had shaken her to the very soul had given place to a sobered sadness — a 
tempered sorrow, which cast a mellowed and thoughtful sentiment over 
her fine countenance, and subdued that “ wondrous fire of eye,” and viva- 
cious tone of expression, which was her wont in her days of heart’s ease 
and carelessness. 

But the sight of Wahrend re-awakened all her sad story. His entry into 
the cottage operated on her spirit as though he were her evil genius, only 
come to rekindle pain and misery. But even with this the visiter could 
perceive that there was not that energy of refusal when she bade him go, 
that had characterised her speech on the day of the funeral, it was a ne- 
gative decided and absolute, but tempered with a womanly show of mo- 
desty. Her ears were not now shut, as then, to the sound of his voice ; 
and though her command for his absence still remained the same, he was 
afforded an opportunity to plead his own cause, and describe his participa- 
tion in all her sorrows. But on one point he was still unsuccessful : in 
vain he used all his village store of eloquence to persuade her to permit 
another visit — in vain he intreated for a second opportunity to speak of his 
grief for having unintentionally been an instrument in that piteous absence 
which was still the chief of Madeline’s sorrow : the girl’s answer was, 
“No, Wahrend, no! I can. never meet you without its remembrance 
reviving in my breast, and withering all hope of pleasure in your society.” 

W ahrend took the wise course. He forbore pressing his suit more closely 
on that occasion, and resolved to apply to the maiden’s new-found relation 
as a mediator. 

“ The task you would impose upon me,” said the old man, after having 
listened to Wahrend’s request, “is a difficult one, for it is manifest that 
Madeline feels most acutely on the subject. I have the more difficulty, 
too, from not knowing how far you were the tempter on the day in ques- 
tion.” 

“ My good sir,” replied Wahrend, “there was no matter of temptation 
on either side. It was merely the hand of chance that brought Madeline 
and myself together on that day. I had been out with my fishing-rod seek- 
ing sport in the brooks on the plain below, till the sun became too high and 
hot to give me further hope of success — just at that moment Madeline ap- 
peared ; she was full of buoyancy and spirits at the apparent change for 
the better in her mother’s health ; and, as we had not met for several days, 
it was almost unconsciously, while engaged in our various subjects of con- ” 
versation, that we pursued our course from home so far that it was im- 
possible to get back sooner than we did. Believe me, sir, there was blame 
on neither side.” 


12 


TRANSFUSION .* OR, THE 


“ I can hardly allow that, my young friend,” said the uncle ; “ for, at 
least, Madeline should have felt that no improvement so soon after such 
an illness could have justified her quitting her mother for so many hours.” 

Here Wahrend zealously undertook to defend Madeline altogether from 
the imputation. 

“ Gently, gently, good Master Wahrend,” cried the elder; “it is not 
quite high treason of which I have accused her, so there is no need of so 
able an advocate, even though he be fee’d with the hope of a lady’s smile. 
A little indiscretion and want of calculation is the sum of what has hap- 
pened ; or, rather, I would say, if I have yet read Madeline’s character 
rightly, it was an impetuosity of temperament, which so involved her in 
the affair of the moment as to leave her no judgment for the consideration 
of the future.” 

Wahrend looked grave at this speech. Was it that he did not like the 
observations that fell from the monitor ; or, that his heart silently confessed 
to him that the uncle had already dived into the real depths of Madeline’s 
character ? 

“ Come, come,” continued the stranger, “ there is no occasion for such 
seriousness of demeanour. Before the day is past I will endeavour to take 
an opportunity to make Madeline view the case in the true light ; and if 
you will be here betimes to-morrow, I take upon myself to venture an 
assurance that you shall be received as was the wont before the occurrence 
of the melancholy event, which for the last month has clouded all our 
brows, and leaded all our hearts.” 

On this assurance, and happy at having won so powerful a pleader to his 
cause, Wahrend took his leave. 

The old man had his reasons for the promise he had so freely given. 
After what had passed on the day of the funeral, he had not suffered a whole 
month to elapse without, making inquiries respecting the young man who 
had been a party to Madeline’s lamented absence on the day of her mother’s 
decease. Albert had been interrogated in writing, and inquiries had also been 
made in the village. Every thing that he had heard had tended to give him 
a respect for Wahrend’s character; and though Madeline as yet had not 
completed her seventeenth year, he looked forward to the probability that a 
period would arrive when a marriage between these two might take place. 
To this conclusion he was led by a very natural train of reasoning. From 
the short conversation he had had with Wahrend, it was plain that his 
sentiments towards Madeline were of the most affeetio.nate order ; and 
though he had not yet had an opportunity of sounding Madeline on the 
subjecl, he could not doubt that the fact of her having chosen this youth as 
her companion ought to be a strong inference of a feeling on her part towards 
him, such as might ripen into affection and regard. His inquiries had also 
afforded him information respecting Wahrend’s property, which, for a Swiss 
denizen, he found to be ample and unincumbered, and such as would afford 
to any moderate disposition all the means of worldly comfort ; joined to 
which, his family was one of the most respected in the canton in which he 
resided. 

Satisfied on these points, the uncle promised ; and he performed his 
promise. That same evening he took an occasion to remonstrate with 
Madeline on the subject. Young as their connexion was, and respectfully 
as she regarded her mother’s brother, the hot spirit of her temper would 
peep out. It seemed as though she could not brook the idea of other persons 
thinking for her. She might have said with Shakspeare’s Richard, though 
on another ground— “ I am myself alone !” It was as though her judgment 
was supreme and complete in all its parts — a panoply wherein she stood 
entire; and that to aim a dart against it was treason self-confessed. She 
however yielded to her uncle’s representations, and consented to admit 


ORPHANS OP UNWALDEN. 


13 


Wahrend to his former station. As to what that station was, nothing was 
said it was not for a young maiden to speak on such a subject, and the 
senior trusted to his penetration to be able to discover it from the opportu- 
nities that would be afforded when the pair were together. 

And now we must let in Time with his swooping wings : the edax rerum 
must arise to the imagination, and quickly devour a year of all the lives of 
those that have yet made their appearance, or are to make their appearance, 
on the tablet of these events. Autumn, winter, and spring must pass on 
more swiftly than Banquo’s ghostly line on witches’ mirror, and summer in 
all her loveliness again spread her bounties around Unwalden and the Single 
Cottage. 

By this time the new-found uncle had had ample opportunities for 
studying Madeline’s disposition towards her young attendant ; but this 
study had afforded him no satisfaction. He did not see in her behaviour 
any of those germs which promised in lapse of time to shoot forth goodly 
blossoms of affection. There was too much of indifference in her manner 
towards Wahrend — there was too broad a carelessness in her address of 
him to give hopes of future regard. Nor was this all : there was a fast and 
loose in her mode of dealing with him that was most distasteful to her elder 
friend : it was evident that she was unwilling that Wahrend should know 
when or where he was to depend upon her : it w r as as though she would 
only do such things, and pursue such a course, as could not be quoted 
against her ; so that if ever he turned to reproach, there was to be no text 
found whereon he might build his lecture. 

These observations afforded exquisite pain to her uncle. He saw in 
them unhappiness for Wahrend, unhappiness for Madeline, and unhappi- 
ness for all that were connected with either of those parties : but as her 
conduct was such as to avoid affording the complaints of Wahrend a corner- 
stone, so the elder could not see whereon he was himself exactly to found 
remonstrance. But this was not the worst. In examining one part of 
Madeline's character, he could not avoid studying another : this was that 
impetuosity of disposition of which two instances have already been men- 
tioned. Indeed, this very feature was combined with, and formed part of, 
her coquetry towards Wahrend ; for no otherwise could the rapidity with 
which she turned from rough to smooth — from kind to cruel — be account- 
ed for. 

The uncle, willing to give the case its full interpretation, next turned 
his attention to the mode in which she treated her brother. He was willing 
to learn from that, what was her sentiment towards Wahrend ; for that she 
should love Albert with deep affection was natural, and that there should be 
no occasion to conceal that love is consanguinity’s command and happiness. 
This examination confirmed the senior as to her indifference towards Wah- 
rend. Her whole mind seemed fraught with affection towards her brother: 
if he only walked across the room, her eye chased him uneasily ; she was 
ever ready to watch and care for his smallest desires ; and her hours seemed 
never so happily spent as when she was endeavouring by explanations and 
tuition to make up the deficiency which nature had imposed upon him. 
But still, amid all this, the tinge of authority prevailed : it was not the sister 
with her brother, so much as the mother with her child : the difference in 
their years, though not great, and Albert’s natural affliction, were to be 
admitted as some apology ; but the spirit of her movements, doubtless, beto- 
kened the same feeling as that which was exercised on Wahrend — subdued 
indeed in tone, but essentially identical. 

Her uncle felt deeply the mischief of this growing evil. He searched 
the subject with all his knowledge of the world, and traced that love of 
power was the hot-bed from which this noxious herbage had its growth. 
He felt that each day was precious — that each hour the thing was suffered 
50—2 


14 


transfusion: or, the 


to slip by unnoticed was confirming the strength of the disease, and mak- 
ing it hopelessly irradicable. 

Why, then, aid he not struggle against its growth? — 1 pray you under- 
stand this man of sorrows aright : yet another chapter, and you shall know 
his history ; but, meanwhile, let it be observed that he wa3 a being broken 
down with affliction ; — kindly of heart, but disappointed of hope, his best 
energies had long since been withered, and he was little more than an ani- 
mal vegetating on the earth, deprived of that potent mastery of soul which 
gives the human creature all his more valuable properties. Thus, then, 
though he had wit to discover Madeline’s error, he was too infirm of pur- 

E ose, or rather too bent from inward bruising, to venture on a task to which 
is sense of duty was ever impelling him. Often and often did he resolve 
that Madeline should be recalled from the error of her steps : frequently 
did he exclaim to himself, “ Before another day passes, will 1 point out to 
tins headstrong girl the mischief to which she gives herself up.” But days, 
weeks, and months passed by without the attempt. He was too unnerved, 
too coward to be able to force himself to face the impetuosity of her char- 
acter, and to decry the fearless vivacity, or worse,, with which she yielded 
to every movement of her mind. 

All these things that had been estimated by the uncle; Wahrend had also 
observed, but he lacked the microcosmical glass by which the former had 
been able rightly to interpret the meaning that lay beneath the surface : — 
he probably had heard of allowances to be made for maiden modesty, and 
might think that Madeline acted on grounds which Cressida confesses — 

Who shall be true to us, 

When we are so unseeret to ourselves 7 
But though I loved you well, I woo’d you not; 

And yet, good faith, I wish’d myself a man ; 

Or that we women had men’s privilege, 

Of speaking first. 

But practically he brought to the examination of the mysterious methods 
of the sex nothing but a villager’s simplicity and a Swiss straight-forward- 
ness of honesty. The properties were altogether useless : he might as 
well have tried to read Hebrew by the aid of Ainsworth, or rightly under- 
stand the world’s revolving system by the book of Tycho Brahe. It was a 
mystery ! That was all that could be said for it. But who is he so wise 
of self to know that mysteries are better let alone, and that their very es- 
sence is to be inexplicable? Not Wahrend surely! — He would interpret. 
The interpretation in good truth was wrong ; but nevertheless ’twas a good 
interpretation ; she acted upon it. 

To this, then, it led him. Madeline had not yet understood him aright; 
perhaps he had not been sufficiently clear in explaining his intentions, and 
her bashful modesty stood in the way of giving too much encouragement 
till he had been explicit. Oh, it was admirably thought, and he hugged 
himself in the plenitude of his wisdom. 

Further consideration taught him that it were better to proceed, if pos- 
sible, upon assurance ; and he resolved to seek a private interview with 
the uncle of his mistress, to state to him at once his desire of making 
Madeline his own, and to solicit his powerful aid and assistance as an 
advocate in behalf of his cause. 

This application and offer on the part of Wahrend were like a thunder- 
stroke to the old man. He saw at once that the moment of trial was 
come, and that his hitherto deferred duty could no longer be put off. For 
an instant he hesitated whether he would at once explain to Wahrend that 
Iris hopes were vain, and so endeavour to induce him to withdraw his preten- 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


15 


sions altogether* His honesty of heart, however, combined- with his feeling 
of nervous indecision, would not permit such a step* It might be possible that 
he had interpreted Madeline’s sentiments a- wrong : — it might be that at the 
bottom of all her coquetry and surface-spread indifference there was a stratum 
cf affection ; and he resolved to make the trial. But he took care not to commit 
himself with W ahrend. All that he would engage for was to speak to Made- 
line on the subject, and to give a fair statement of the young man’s proposals. 

That same evening he roused all his latent energies to the task. 

“ Madeline,” said he, after having summoned her to the little room that 
went by the name of his study; “my dear Madeline, I have for some 
months been anxious to speak to you— I may say to remonstrate with you, 
on your conduct towards Wahrend.” 

“ Towards Wahrend ! ’ cried she, colouring at the suddenness of the 
attack, and ill-digesting the term “remonstrate.” 

“Be not angry at my interference, dear girl,” said her uncle, “ it is your 
own welfare and happiness that are in my heart, and that prompt me to tread 
on such tender ground. I have long looked with pain at what has been 
taking place between you:— I have long been resolving to speak to you on 
the subject. But if you feel unprepared, let us defer it till to-morrow, that 
you may have time to search your own feelings.” 

“ Oh, no, sir,” replied the girl ; “ pray, not. On the subject of Wah- 
rend, as on all other indifferent subjects, I am ready without preparation.” 

“Be not rash in words,” said the uncle, “for much depends on this 
night’s resolve. Wahrend is an excellent young man — perhaps I never 
met with one who had so little to blame in him ; but even if he were one 
of faults, it would justify no unfair treatment.” 

“Unfair treatment, uncle! I know of neither fairness nor unfairness on 
the subject. If he seeks me, he seeks me with my humours ; and if one, 
he must take the two together.” 

“ Madeline ” 

f “ Allow me for one moment,” continued she, somewhat eagerly ; — “ his 
visits are not of my seeking ; his pretentions — if, as you insinuate, he has 
any — are not of my raising. He comes here, I presume, not as my visiter, 
but as the visiter of the family : as such he can of course expect nothing from 
me but ray usual maimer. Sorry shall I be if those manners are offensive 
to any one ; but even so, the mischief recoils on myself, and on me be the 
burthen.” 

“ Madeline, Madeline, I expected this. But am l to have no weight in 
the business ?” 

“ If,” said she, “ you speak as my uncle — every weight ; but if you come 
as the advocate of Wahrend, how can I treat you other than I would treat 
the gentleman himself?” 

“For shame, for shame, Madeline,” replied her uncle; “you must well 
understand my motive. What can it be but your happiness ? And if 
Wahrend forms part of our consideration, it is because you have encouraged 
him to pursue his hopes.” 

“ I encouraged him, uncle ! Was it I that recalled him after his former 
dismissal ? — Has it been I that have given him invitations day after day to 
the cottage ? Tax your own memory, and you will soon discover whence 
the encouragement has proceeded.” 

“ So young,” cried the uncle, “and already so in love with sophistry ! If 
I interfered to have Wahrend recalled, on what principle could it have been 
but for your sake? I did not even know him then. And if the invitations 
to him have verbally emanated from me, was it not in your power to stop 
them in a miuute by the slightest intimation?” 

“Well, sir, be the fault where it will, I have nothing to recall— nothing 
to wish undone. 1 defy Wahrend to specify one single act on my part that 


16 


TRANSFUSION : OK, THE 


marks my reception of his pretensions and if the young man will be mad- 
o’-love, Narcissus-like, making me his mirror, and therein admiring himsclt 
without an ay or a no left to me, the affair must rest with him, for 1 discard 
it. And so, uncle, good even !” 

“ Stay, Madeline ; we must not part so. Have I your consent to dismiss 
Wahrend?” 

“ Neither consent nor refusal. I say again, 1 discard tire whole business. 
Wahrend may come, or he may send his spaniel in his place, if he please. 
They are both pretty fellows, and 1 don’t know but that 1 like Fidel the best 
of the two.” 

“Niece, this is beyond endurance. Mcthinks if an honest Swiss, like 
Wahrend, must be ill used, at least some respect is due to my age, my ex- 
perience, and the character which 1 hear. Steps, Madeline, must be taken 
to insure reason a fair hearing, if you have not wisdom enough of your own 
to accept it when offered.” 

“Uncle!. — sir!” — cried Madeline, her face springing to the depth of 
colour with passion at the shadow of a threat ; “ be assured that let what 
steps be taken you please, I am, and ever will be, my own free agent. I 
know no bond but that of inclination and all else must be fruitless of 
management. I would rather ffy to earth’s confines than submit — ay, 
rather than hear the words that convey the thought of it.” 

“ Madeline—” 

“ Be quiet, sir, 1 say. It is for me to be heard, or never shall we under- 
stand each other. For your protection I thank you — for your advice I am 
grateful — but commands, threats, and the favour of another cause con- 
trary to mine must ever make me lament the day that first brought my 
mother’s brother to Unwalden. I pray you, sir, ponder on this, and let it 
pass for earnest ; for it is as fixed in my mind as the unalterable fiats of 
eternity. I can know a counsellor and a friend, good uncle; but no 
master.” 

W ith these words she left the room. 

The old man was seen no more that night. Albert, when their little 
supper was spread, would have tapped at his uncle’s door to summon him 
to the meal, but Madeline with frowning signs forbade. Passion, with all 
its tortuous chain of argument, was still alive in her bosom, and would not 
let her see that she had done more than vindicate her just rights, and 
establish on an equitable basis the relative position between her uncle and 
herself. 

But when she retired to rest, and was buried in the seclusion of her own 
room, other thoughts recurred to her in spite of herself. She could not for- 
get the ever-living anxiety which her uncle had displayed for the interest of 
herself, and of her brother, which perhaps she estimated still more highly. 
She could not omit recalling to her memory the blandness of his manner, 
the mildness of his demeanour on all occasions, and the fond readiness 
with which he gave in to any project that was set on foot for the happiness 
or hilarity of his darlings. All these things entered her heart like many- 
edged swords, and ever as they passed through her conscience made gashes 
as they went. Then too she thought of the constant show of sadness that 
sat upon his countenance, and the hints that he had dropped of the misery 
of his forgone life ; and could she, whom he had so tenderly cherished, be 
the cruel one to inflict fresh injury on his galled heart? The thought 
haunted her all night, as they say the ghost of the murdered victim slaTks 
in darksome hour before the ruffian whose bloody hand performed the deed. 
Continually did she cry, “ I will go and seek pardon where I have offended 
and as often feelings of shame and wrong-minded timidity held her back. 

Thus for the night, for not till the sun first shot his early ray above the 
horizon did sleep relieve her from her present grief. 


ORPHANS OF UNVVALDEN. 


17 


CHAPTER IV. 

I am a wretch of honest race : 

My parents not obscure, nor high in titles were : 

They left me heir to no disgrace. 

My father was (a thing now rare) 

Loyal and brave, my mother chaste and fair : 

The pledge of marriage-vows was only I ; 

Alone I lived, their much-loved fondled boy : 

They gave me generous education ; high 

They strove to raise my mind ; and with it grew their joy. 

Thus my first years in happiness I pass’d, 

Nor any bitter cup did taste ; 

But, oh 1 a deadly portion came at last. 

Otway’s Complaint of the Muse. 

On the next morning, Madeline was awakened by a kiss from Albert. 
She eyed the boy, and perceived there was something amiss by his man- 
ner. By the usual method she inquired, and learned that their uncle, 
though it was nearly two hours past nis usual time for rising, had not yet 
made his appearance. Madeline herself had over-slept the time, but that 
was to be accounted for by the lateness of the hour at which sleep over- 
took her. 

She hastily dressed herself at the intimation she had received from Al- 
bert, for her heart told her that something was wrong. As soon as she was 
ready, she went to her uncle’s room. He was not there : — the bed had not 
been slept in, and the apartment was in disorder. 

What could this mean ? Of what strange tragedy had her violence been 
the author ? She longed to know the worst, that anticipation with its thou- 
sand horrid phantoms might be stifled by the truth — and yet she dreaded 
the arrival of the moment that should explain the mystery. 

It came. A peasant arrived from the next village to "the south, which 
was about, eight miles off, and he brought with him a letter. All that he 
could tell was, that an elderly and reverend looking gentleman on horse- 
back had given it to him, and paid him his own price for bringing it to the 
Single Cottage. 

Madeline took the letter with a trembling hand. She partly guessed its 
contents, yet still wanted resolution to break the seal. Albert, innocent, 
and eager to know of what stuff this mystery was made, urged her to a 
speedy execution. 

The missive was opened, and its contents ran thus : — 

“ My Children— for l must ever call you so ; though, when you receive 
this, you will understand that I have withdrawn myself from you — that I 
have for ever quitted Unwalden — and that search or pursuit after me will 
be equally in vain. It may be possible for you to find me, but never for 
you successfully to follow me, for your approach will ever be the signal for 
me to fly from realm to realm. 

“ I may be wrong in my resolve — even as I write my heart half-confesses 
to me that I am so ; but 1 seem to be hurried on by an irresistible impulse 
in saying — Farewell for ever! 

“ Will you not condemn me for the step 1 am taking? Will you not, if 
mischiefs overtake you, cry out upon the uncle (and yet no uncle) who, m 
your early days, forsook you, and bade you fight your own way through 
the thoroughfare of life ? Alas, I fear me— yes, and justly. 

2 * 


18 


transfusion: or, the 


“ But, even if it be so, my resolution is yet unaltered ; and I confess my- 
self too great a coward to dare the risk of encountering such scenes as 
passed between us yesterday. 

“ But I ramble from my purpose, which is to give you a fair and faithful 
history of the things- that have been, in the hope that you will see the prin- 
ciple on which I seek to avoid the things that may be. Nor do I offer you 
the narrative on this account only. While your mother, or subsequently 
myself, was at hand to guide and instruct you, there was no pressing neces- 
sity to acquaint you with the circumstances of your earlier life, or the 
events that led to those circumstances. The case is now altered : — even 
at this moment you stand alone ; and I should be guilty of an injustice 
were I, knowing this your situation, to forbear giving you all the informa- 
tion within my power. 

“ Let me, in opening my story, begin by informing you that your mo- 
ther and myself had not the ties of blood to unite us. Anon you will hear 
how much more nearly and dearly we ought to have been connected. We 
were both of us natives of the same village in England ; and, from the con- 
nexion which existed between our families, may almost have been said to 
have been intimates from our first entrance into the world. I shall not, 
however, carry you so far back. Suffice it to say, each succeeding day 
found us together: as children, we might be seen hand in hand rambling 
through my father’s grounds ; and, when further advanced towards adoles- 
cence, we were still to be found together in our studies, our amusements, 
and our thoughts. No objection to this frequency of intercourse was en- 
tertained on the part of our friends ; for, as we alike were only children of 
the families we represented, the parents of both looked fondly forward to 
the day that should see their friendship united by marriage as well as by 
affection. 

“ For ourselves, marriage was an idea that never distinctly entered our 
imagination. It was a word that I had never uttered to Agnes, simply 
because it had never had possession of my thoughts. The constant recur- 
rence of our interviews had so far assimilated our tastes, that the idea of 
departure came upon us with the same fearful image as that of death ; but 
beyond companionship we had never thought. To be together was our 
paradise, beyond which we neither looked nor cared ; and our casual sepa- 
ration was the signal for the exertion of all our simple cunning and inge- 
nuity to abridge and circumvent. It was this that had caused our mutual 
education at home ; for even now I can remember, with all the freshness 
of to-day, the passionate ilood of tears that burst from Agnes when my 
father announced his intention of sending me to a public school to pursue 
my education. The girl sorrowed like the young kid that has lost its dam ; 
and the week that was to have intervened between the notice of my depar- 
ture and the act itself was sufficient to steal colour from her cheeks to such 
an extent, that her alarmed parents petitioned— and successfully— that the 
plan might be altered for that of a home education. 

“ A day of separation, however, at length arrived, most unexpectedly. 
My father, who was a retired merchant in the West India connexion, re- 
ceived a letter one morning by the post, announcing the arrival in London 
of his West Indian agent from Jamaica, where my father still retained a 
large estate, and from which he derived his principal income. He had long 
wished for an opportunity of a personal communication with this gentle- 
man, as it was generally understood throughout the country that West In- 
dian property was greatly depreciating, so as to render it advisable for 
those who had large property at stake there to be on the alert. At the time 
of the arrival of this letter, however, my father was suffering so much from 
an attack of the gout that it was impossible to go himself to town ; and the 
agent, in his letter, announced that he had only time to stay three days in 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


19 


London, previous to his departure for the Continent, where he had busi- 
ness of the greatest importance to transact. Under these circumstances 
my father came to the resolution of despatching me to London. 

“ Against such a commission as this it was impossible for either Agnes 
or myself to struggle ; but the necessity of the errand could not take 
away from the bitterness of the separation, and a flood of tears marked my 
departure. 

“ On my arrival in London I found my father's agent had been so much 
curtailed, even in the short stay that he had purposed to make, that he had 
already quitted the metropolis. In his place I found his son, a young man 
apparently about five-and-twenty years of age, who, having received full 
instructions from his father on the subject, together with himself having had 
the advantage of living the greater part of his life near my father’s West 
Indian estates, was fully competent to answer all the quesons it most con- 
cerned our family to ask. 

‘‘It is not my intention to dwell on the character of Stephen Warner ; 
neither may 1 do it, my children, for this man was no other than your 
-father. The day, too, for invective and anger has long since gone by. I 
write but to tell the facts that occurred : it is for you to draw the con- 
clusions. 

“When I first introduced myself to Warner, I thought it impossible not 
to be captivated with his style and manner. Asa companion I found him 
replete with information, and a fund of never-ending gaiety and descrip, 
tion. Under his guidance I was speedily initiated into all the mysteries of 
London ; under his tuition, with shame do I say it, I shortly became ac- 
quainted with its follies and dissipations. I neither palliate nor excuse my 
conduct ; but I tell it that you may both be warned how easy it is for a 
young and ductile mind to be led away by the first glare of the splendours 
that await its first visit to the more luxurious haunts of men. 

“ This course was pursued for a fortnight, during the latter part of w hich 
period we were waiting in expectation of the elder Warner’s return from 
Paris. At the expiration of that time a letter arrived to state that he was 
still unavoidably detained in the French capital, and that he must not be 
expected in England for a month, when he would be able to come down to 
the village where my father resided. 

“ On this information being communicated to my father, I received a re- 
call to the country. In courtesy I could not do less than invite Warner to 
accompany me : but with me it was a matter of more than courtesy ; I felt 
as if I could never have enough of his conversation, and pressed him with 
proportionate warmth to spend the month in question at my father’s house; 
The invitation was accepted, and next day we arrived at Morfield. 

“ Warner had frequently heard me extol my Agnes, as I then so fondly 
called her, with all the enthusiasm of a young heart deeply involved in a 
single feeling, of which she w T as the Alpha and the Omega, and had as 
frequently laughed at the overflowing of my soul in praise of her many 
excellencies. He was now introduced to her. ‘ I cry you mercy,’ I well 
remember his saying to me after the first interview — ‘ 1 cry you mercy ! 
This was indeed a topic worth dwelling on. I could myself be a six-hour 
poet on so admirable a subject!’ 

“ Fool that I was, I felt proud of having w'on so good a judge to my side, 
and spent myself in devices to exhibit the more hidden excellencies of Agnes 
to his gaze. 

“ I had not been back at my native village many days, before I found the 
mischief of the spirit in which I had entered into the dissipations of Lon- 
don. Every thing in the country seemed so dull and so monotonous — 
even the conversation of Warner seemed to flag for the want of those gay 
accompaniments that had helped to make it living. My only delight was 


20 


TRANSFUSION : OR, THE 


to recount to Agnes the scenes I had witnessed in London, and these^de- 
scriptions in their turn only served to confirm my disease, and I pined once 
again to behold the gay metropolis— to launch into its amusements, and to 
taste its pleasures. My situation might be called a sort of parody on the 
well-known couplet of the poet : — 

A little learning is a dangerous thing ; 

Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring. 

The short admission I had had into the gaities of London had not satisfied. 
Had I always been ignorant of them, in my ignorance I should have been 
contented ; but having once had my feet wetted by the spring-tide of luxury, 
I longed to dash into the depths and the rapids, and to be hurried along the 
torrent. 

“ This sentiment soon grew too large for my own single bosom, and 1 
communicated it to Warner. I could not have made a more happy disclo- 
cure for him ; for already had he felt the force of Agnes’ charms — already 
had he sworn to supplant me, and make her his own. His active mind was 
brooding a plan for removing me from the scene of action, when I thus fur- 
nished him with one entirely fitted to his purpose. 

“ My proposal was simple enough : it was to ask my father’s leave for a 
renewed absence, and to get Warner to undertake the task of soothing 
Agnes’ sorrow at my own seeking of a separation for awhile. This, how- 
ever, did not suit the foresighteaness of my confidant ; his plan required 
something more than a mere week or two of friendly separation ; and he, 
therefore, urged me to take my departure clandestinely, on the ground that 
he was sure from what my father had heard in hints from others, and from 
my own mouth, in shape of anecdote, he would be opposed to any second 
visit to London. For awhile I withstood this unauthorised absence; but 
the man of the world was too much for the simple villager, and, on his pro- 
mise to soften anger and soothe displeasure, I made my escape from the 
village on horseback one morning before any of the family were stirring. 

“From that hour Warner was triumphant The grey light of dawn 

is breaking in upon me as I write ; and in what I have further to say I 
must be brief. Neither is it necessary that 1 should delineate in full all the 
false and cruel artifices by which he worked his plot to its crowning 
mischief. Falsehoods unnumbered — insinuated calumnies against my 
character — forged letters which kept me at a distance, and him in the 
stronghold, wrought the consummation of his project: — Agnes, in despair 
of heart at my supposed neglect and infidelity, gave her hand to my treach- 
erous companion. 

“ Nor was this all. As if to make the devastation of my happiness com- 
plete, my father, who had long been suffering more and more severely from 
the complaint which had forced me to take that first accursed visit to Lon- 
don, sunk under the disorder, united with the grief he felt at my unexplained 
absence. An old servant, who had tended me when a babe, and watched 
each growing year of my life, sought me out with unwearied determination. 
He found me ; and the double news of your mother’s marriage and my 
father’s death, burst upon me at once, even as one storm hurls the two 
dread attributes of Heaven on the unprotected wayfarer that is exposed to 
the fury of the smiting clouds. 

“ Those who have not undergone the same blow cannot have imagina- 
tion for the pang inflicted. Grief, rage, despair, and revenge heaped their 
accumulated tortures on my soul, and I gave vent to curses, imprecations, 
and prayers in one and the same moment. 

“ The servant who discovered me was alarmed at my energy of passion, 
and, dreading its consequences, despatched a letter to Morfield, with an 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


21 


account of the paroxysm under which I was labouring. But it had not yet 
reached its height. The more I dwelt on the infernal arts of which War- 
ner had made use to inveigle my sweet Agnes from her first affections, the 
more my heart — my whole soul— swelled with inextinguishable fury. They 
tell of the old martyrs of the church having live coals thrust into the sockets 
of their eyes, but with me the burning embers had penetrated to the very 
brain, and I felt as if the fortitude of a thousand men would have been 
unequal to sustain the anguish which 1 endured. Warner’s form was ever 
before my imagination— it even excluded the remembrance of my lost, Agnes 
and my deceased father, and it appeared as if there was to be but one act 
consummated to complete the drama — Revenge! — Revenge! 

“The intenseness with which this single thought took possession of my 
soul was too much for the strength of my intellect, and the result was a 
violent attack of the brain fever. The malady held its dominion over me 
for several weeks, during which time it remained doubtful with the physi- 
cians whether I should ever recover further than to be consigned to a mad- 
house for the rest of my life. At length I was pronounced to be convales- 
cent, and, after a lapse of more than two months from the first arrival of 
the news, I was permitted to quit my room. 

“ The first step that I took when I found myself sufficiently master of 
my actions, was to make inquiry respecting Agnes. The only intelligence 
that I could gain was, that Warner, with his wife, had taken his departure 
from Morfield within a day or two after his hearing of the threats in which 
I had indulged against him. He was no coward, physically speaking ; 
but he had that within him which made him shrink from the presence of 
his victim. Whither he had gone no one was able to pronounce — not even 
his wife’s parents, whom, on my arrival at Morfield shortly after, I found 
complaining bitterly of the unkind treatment they vvere receiving at the 
hands of their son-in-law. 

“ This information well nigh caused a relapse in the delicate state of 
health to which I was reduced. All the sober reasonings that had been 
preached to me by my physicians — and which, indeed, I had begun to 
preach to myself— of the necessity that there w as for my restraining my 
passions, disappeared at the thought that Warner was behaving with 
unkindness to Agnes. Could he, indeed, be so all-in-all a monster ? And 
yet, as her parents well observed, if he was not placing her under restraint, 
well persuaded w*ere they that their girl would never have suffered so long 
a period to elapse, without, at least, letting them know to what part of the 
world her husband had conveyed her. The constant prevalence of this 
thought in my mind set me upon the task of finding out her hiding-place. By 
dint of exertions I traced their route to Dover and Calais, and with no other 
guide but this, I wildly resolved to search the Continent for the spot whither 
they had removed. 1 cannot now look back at the hopeless prosecution 
of this scheme, without confessing to myself that there was a taint of 
madness in the thought. Then, however, I thought otherwise, and accusing 
myself of being the means of entailing on Agnes the wretchedness which 
I supposed her to be undergoing, I felt as if my heart dictated me to offer 
myself as the peace-offering, in the hope that the most unrelaxing exertion 
would be the means of discovering her retreat. 

“ With this sentiment in my mind I set forth cn my travels, and for six 
tedious years scrupulously applied myself to the task that I had imposed 
upon myself. But in vain. Aye, in vain did I search city and village ; in 
vain did 1 expose myself to the rigour of a Russian winter, or to the swel- 
tering ray of a Sicilian sun : every effort was fruitless and nugatory ; and 
after having searched every portion of the Continent, not only by myself, but 
through well-instructed agents, I returned to England and to Morfield, after 
an absence of more than six years — a man of sorrow and stricken with grief. 


22 


transfusion: or, the 


“ On my arrival at my native village, I found the parents of Agnes had 
long since died, without even hearing one word from their daughter ; and 
that her father, who survived his lady but a few months, had willed the 
whole of his property to public charities. 

“ For myself, I had nothing further to do, or to hope. The remembrance 
of Agnes still clung to my heart — somewhat more soberly, but still most 
anxiously. Each house, each field, each garden of Morfield, assisted the 
recollection, and I resolved to sit me down there for life, with the memory of 
past times for my companion, and the thousand cherished mementos of 
Agnes for my society. 

It was thus that two more years passed away — and thus, doubtless, 
my days would ever have been spent— but for a most unexpected incident. 

I was sitting one day in my study, trying to tempt myself to read, while 
thoughts of what had been and what might have been insisted on their 
right of intrusion, when the servant brought me a letter that had just been 
delivered by the postman. It was long before I thought of opening it, but 
at length, finding my ideas would settle on nothing but those forgone 
scenes, the recollection of which formed all my melancholy, I opened the 
letter, on a chance that its contents might for a moment turn me from my 
source perpetual of inward wo. But what words shall describe my aston- 
ishment when I found that the letter was from Agnes ! I will not give 
myself the misery of describing all the heart-rending circumstances that 
this letter contained. Suffice it to say, it was too apparent from its contents 
that Warner, having begun his course in villainy, had continued it in hard- 
hearted brutality, and that my gentle, kind, misled Agnes had, from the 
first hour of her marriage with him, been his slave rather than his wife. 
Long, very long had she borne this : ignorance of her parents’ fate — spy- 
like watchfulness to prevent the least communication with England — and 
cruel tauntings on her early regards for me, formed the basis of that super- 
structure of wretchedness which Warner, in mere recklessness of cruelty, 
delighted to build around her. Yet still she was the patient wife. But 
even patience such as hers was to be exhausted! in a moment of anger 
brought on by the last of suffering, she reproached him with the miseries 
he had heaped upon her. It was then indeed that the fiend was let loose : 
the bully, the tyrant, and the traitor were charactered three in one ; and 
his raging eagerness to make his victim writhe to the very marrow under 
his harrowing words made him tell all that he had heretofore concealed. 
With fiendlike bursts of laughter he described how I had been cheated 
by his devilish arts — in the same spirit he narrated my unwearied search 
through Europe for the fugitives — and with tenfold, with ten times tenfold 
barbarity he mapped out in living colours the broken-heartedness of her 
parents, their still-lingering hope when yet expectation was dead, their 
death with blank despair for her fate, deep-seated in their just palpitating 
bosoms. Of all these things he had with cunning wile taken care to inform 
himself, and what wanted detail he filled out with drafts upon his own 
demoniac invention. Till this moment Agnes had with resolved spirit of 
endurance borne every thing that he had heaped upon her. But the die 
was now cast— the fiend incarnate stood confessed before her— and deeply 
within herself did she vow that never again would she dwell or exchange 
word with the man whom in an evil moment she had made her husband. 
All this, with many accusations against herself, did she detail to me ; and 
her letter concluded by throwing herself on what she painfully called my 
generosity for a little pittance for herself and her two children, with whom 
she had already eloped from her husband. 

“ Generosity !— Gracious Heaven ! was it not I that had brought her to 
this ? The mad freak of my hey-day blood had cast her into the arms of a 
wretch on whom the most abandoned of the sex would have been ill bestowed. 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


23 


if deserts were to form his claim : was it not I that had oeen the originator 
of this mountain of ill that was overwhelming the frail tenor of her life ? 
And to appeal to my generosity after that ! Oh, Agnes, how my heart 
bounded when I read the word, to pour at thy feet in act of merest justice 
the uttermost farthing of my wild wanderings in search of thee had yet left 
me to bestow ! 

“ But I wander from the letter. Agnes told me that in Geneva she had 
found a friend — too poor indeed to assist her with money, but rich enough 
in honour and in conscience to be trusted with worlds and worlds’ worth, 
to whom I was to address my answer. ‘ But, remember,’ added she, ‘ that 
answer is to be in writing — the first attempt to discover me separates us 
for ever not only in person but in act, for never from that moment can 1 
receive kindness or bounty from you. 1 say this for both our sakes : our 
coming together would be the renewal of grief which can never be so healed 
by absence as to be forgotten, and which a meeting would inevitably lay 
open to fresh anguish and torture.’ 

“I could not deny the wisdom of this decision, but 1 felt a bitter pang ut 
the necessity that there was for our still remaining separate. There was, 
however, no alternative ; and by return of pQst 1 sent her my answer, 
directed to Madame Lalande, her friend at Geneva, to whom I also wrote, 
requesting that she would suffer no opportunity to slip in acquainting me 
with whatever changes might take place in Agnes’ situation. 

“ At this time you, Madeline, were but seven years old, and Albert not 
quite five. Your mother, through the recommendation of Madame Lalande, 
installed herself in the Single Cottage at Unwalden ; and years passed on, 
which, if they did not bring happiness to her poor broken spirit, at least 
afforded her outward peace, and was a sort of paradise compared with the 
daily and hourly torture of mind she underwent while at the beck of her 
ill-conditioned husband. At the suggestion of the same kind lady, your 
mother not only altered her name, but changed your Christian names also, 
to prevent, as far as possible, any attempt that W arner might make in tracing 
your retreat, and from that day you became Albert and Madeline Schvolen. 

“ There is, however, reason to believe that all his attempts to find you 
were in vain, and that he never traced your mother’s retreat even as far as 
Geneva. I caused inquiry to be made at Florence, at which place he was 
residing when your mother fled from him ; and, subsequently, at Rome and 
Naples, whither he was known to have gone in pursuit of her. At Naples 
it. is probable that he met with an untimely end, for in a drunken frolic he 
made a wager with one of his Bacchanalian companions to penetrate the 
fortresses of the famous Abruzzi bandit Latroni, and join his troop for one 
week. He set out on this mad attempt, and doubtless perished in the effort, 
for never since has he been heard of. As your mother, however, had thought 
proper to change her name, 1 resolved, when I deemed it my duty to seek 
her retreat at Unwalden, to do the same — not from any apprehensions that 
I myself entertained, but that 1 might in every way prove to her the desire 
that I had to cultivate her tranquillity of mind. It is for this reason that you 
have always known me by the name of Seaton, and not by that ofMervyn. 

“ Now let me come to the cause of my visit to Unwalden, and so arrive 
at the end of the painful task I have been obliged to impose on myself. 
About three weeks before my arrival here, and while yet at Morfield, I 
received a letter from Madame Lalande, in which she gave so distressing a 
picture of your mother’s declining health, that I resolved, at all hazards, to 
visit Unwalden in the hopes of alleviating her sufferings. I felt that the 
certainty of Warner’s death could be better urged upon her by myself than 
any other person, and I still cherished the hope that happiness might be in 
store for us. 

“ I reached Unwalden ; but you know the rest, and my task is at an end. 


24 


TRANSFUSION : OR, THE 


“ Again and again, I have fearful misgivings on the step I am about to 
take. You are the children of Agnes, and from the first moment I saw 
you, I forgot in that consideration who your other parent was. But the scene 
which has taken place between me and Madeline has roused it all within 
my heart. Do not be angry with me, child, when I say that I saw in it 
some of the first buddings of your father’s violent temperament — a sacrifice 
of the sense of what is right at the shrme of passion and impulse. Perhaps 
this very thing ought to arrest me, in the hope of crushing this early seed 
by timely care, and it is this that makes me doubt the step to which I am 
impelled. But with shame I confess that I am unequal to the task. I am 
a shaken — pithless creature— my spirit gone— my strength of mind exhaus- 
ted ; and disappointment is the landmark of my existence. 

“ I go then, and, in the words of your mother, I say ‘ the first attempt you 
make to discover me separates us for ever, not only in person, but in act.* 
You will find by the enclosed papers that I have made sufficient provision 
for your worldly welfare. 

“ Fare ye well, dear ones ! Think of me sorrowfully — not angrily ; and 
ever as the hot and evil passions of our nature come over you, let my last 
words come upon your recollection to moderate your temper and awaken 
better feelings in your bosom. 

“And these are my last words. Be unto one another as the eye is to the 
understanding. Let the one be ever ready to picture the truth, and the 
other to give a just interpretation to the record. Be unto one another as the 
blossom is to the fruit — the one forerunning an excellent maturity — the 
other repaying the early foundation from which sprang all its sweetness. 

“Fare the well, Madeline! Fare thee weli, Albert! Think of me, 
and of your mother; and be more happy than either, by learning to avoid 
the errors from which we have reaped misery for so many years. 

“Henry Seaton.” 


CHAPTER V. 

He, seeing her depart, arose up light, 

Right rose agrieved at her sharp reproof 
And followed fast ; but when he came in sight 
He durst not nigh approach, but kept aloof, 

For dread of her displeasure’s utmost proof. 

The Fairie Qubew. 

I charge thee never after this sad day 
To see me, or to meet me ; or to send 
By word, or writing, gift, or otherwise, 

To move me, by thyself, or by thy friends. 

Hevwood’s Woman Killed with Kindness. 

Thus then their fate was sealed : the world to them was an open and 
unprofitable waste : they had but themselves to cherish and make much of 
their misery, for he that should have cared for them was gone, and strangers 
girt them in on every side. 

Sorrow was deep-seated in their hearts. The gentle Albert, gentle as 
the gentlest portion of his mother’s bland spirit, would have wept, not in 
reproach at his sister’s fault, but in sorrow for the kind friend whose smile 
had been so welcome, and whose motive seemed ever to be their happiness, 
but who now was as dead to them as the poor Agnes, who at last had 
found quiet beneath the sod— her first and only resting-place. But even 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


25 


tears did the youth forbid himself when he gazed upon the countenance of 
his sister, settled into anguish of the deepest die. The letter had told him 
enough of his sister’s fault to make him understand the extremity of her 
sorrow ; but the only advantage he took of his so- gained knowledge was 
to throw his arms around the poor girl's neck, in the hope of soothing the 
violence of her grief. 

Madeline understood the appeal ; and, though neither of them yet had 
found words to express the sensations that were beating at their hearts, 
she pressed her brother closer and closer to her bosom, as though she would 
more and more tangibly assure herself that he at least of all her sometime 
good was left to comfort her. 

Thus for awhile they paused before affliction found its vent. Presently 
tears flowed bountifully down Madeline’s cheeks, and taught Albert’s 
honest eyes to overflow. 

When grief has mastery, tears are the presages of words. It is as 
though the sluices of humanity being ready to be opened, those liquid 
mute appellants were ever for the van, gently to prepare the way for more 
sounding demonstration. Let eyes discharge their waters of affliction, and 
lips are trembling on the instant to avouch their truth. 

So with them. 

“Madeline — my sister!” said the boy, “let us not in our sorrow forget 
the only reparation we have it in our power to make to our kind and un- 
happy uncle ; for still must I call this Henry Seaton by the name he taught 
us. The concluding words of his letter should be a never-failing lesson 
to our heart — more cherished, more regarded, and more followed than the 
precepts of philosophy, or the truths of nature. Bethink you, my sister, 
the good man may repent his resolution ; and, should he return, what joy, 
what pride for us, to be able to hold out his own letter to him, and when he 
asks our doings while he was away, to have for answer, * The whole has 
been but a paraphrase of this your own dictation.’ ” 

At the* thought of the possibility of Seaton’s return Madeline’s heart 
fluttered with a momentary hope ; but it was but a passing expectation, 
for, when she remembered the sad and serious resolutions he had penned, 
she felt that such a hope was vam, and that they had indeed lost his pro- 
tection for ever. The whole was a thought of less than a minute, and in 
reply to Albert she shook her head in mournful silence. 

“ Nay, dear Madeline, if he return not,” continued the youth, made elo- 
quent by the fulness of his affection for the sorrowing maid, “ even if he 
return not, be assured he is not altogether absent. We may not be able to 
refer to him for each petty event of our lives, but have we not in his letter 
a general rule for all that more deeply concerns us? And more than this, 
my heart teaches me, and will not have the truth of the lesson denied, that, 
though absent in person, our uncle will still hold watch over us, ready to 
intervene his friendly arm when danger threatens most.” 

Still poor Madeline shook her head. Albert understood her ; it was as 
though she would have said, “ Oh that that were true !” 

“And why not true?” continued her brother; “remember the many 
weary years his zeal urged him on through Europe’s various countries to 
seek his Agnes ; think of the kindness of heart that on Madame Lalande’s 
first intimation tore him away from his habits and long-accustomed home 
at Morfield to seek our mother’s dying bed. Is he not the same man ? 
Do not the same affections and the same goodness still possess his heart? 
And does not his letter — that sad farewell — abound to the very final syllable 
with an iteration of the same spirit of love ?” 

But Madeline still wept for her uncle, and would not be comforted. So 
much solace as the words of Albert conveyed was in its turn destroyed by 
the thought that this poor boy, too, as well as herself, was left desolate by 
50—3 


26 


transfusion: or, the 


the unguarded vehemence of her temper. Albert, whom nature in its un- 
kindness had rendered most needful of a protector, by her had been de- 
prived of one — the best, the kindest, and the most affectionate. The 
thought was overwhelming, and forth in a fresh paroxysm burst her gnef. 

“ Sister,” said Albert, almost desperate at the task imposed upon him, 
“ we have but one course to pursue. We will quit Unwalden, and even, 
as Seaton has done before us, search Europe for our uncle.” 

Madeline’s eyes brightened at the idea. She thought of the eagerness 
with which she would search each village and each town : her imagination 
pictured to her with what devotion she would run to the world’s extremity 
for Seaton. Young, romantic, and imaginative, she almost conceived that 
in the eloquence of her heart she could persuade kings to sanction, and 
emperors to proclaim rewards for the discovery of the lost one. 

“ And yet,” continued Albert, “may we forget the caution in his letter 1 
‘ The first attempt you make to discover me separates us for ever, not only 
in person, but in act ’ ” 

The picture was on the instant reversed to Madeline’s gaze. Would a 
man with such a resolution in his heart be found ? What were they ? 
The children of inexperience, and Unwalden all their earlh. What he ? 
A man of travels, learned in all the difficulties of a journey. How was 
one full in his experience of routes and countries to be dogged by a pair, 
whose only knowledge was the honesty of the single sentiment that would 
pervade their hearts ? 

But again Albert spoke ; and, as his lips moved, his whole expression 
brightened at the thought he was about to convey to his sister. 

“Madeline,” cried he, “will not this do? Unwalden we will quit — 
Geneva we will seek — It is there that Madame Lalande lives. She is the 
friend of Seaton ; and be assured either we shall find him there, or at least 
he will have left token with her what his movements are likely to be.” 

These few words again removed a portion of the cloud from Madeline’s 
brow. Up to that moment they had been beating about on the sea of 
uncertainty — conjecturing, speculating, doubting, wishing, but nothing 
having. Now something practicable was afloat. Their road to Geneva 
was plain and easy ; it was a postillion’s experience, and not their own, on 
which they had to rely for their route ; and when there, it was still to be 
some one else that was to guide them. They remembered nothing indeed 
of Madame Lalande, but they could not doubt that she was easily to be met 
with in Geneva. They knew the names of every inhabitant of their own 
village, and from this deduction it was justly to be argued in their logic that 
every inhabitant of Geneva knew all his fellows. 

With a swiftness of execution which naturally accompanies a |empera- 
ment so rapid as that of Madeline, she resolved to lose not a moment in 
proceeding on the journey. Little more than an hour served to communicate 
the whole of her scheme to Albert, to put the farmer who owned the Single 
Cottage in present possession of the building till they should return, and°to 
prepare the chaise that was to convey them towards the city, where it was 
decisive in Madeline’s mind that something of Seaton was to be ascertained. 

Madeline, her active mind once impregnated with the idea that success 
was at the bottom of her plan, did all. As for Albert, he was but a machine 
in her hands— a willing instrument, however, for he saw each moment add 
fresh brightness to his sister’s looks, fresh courage to her eye ; so that to 
him it appeared as if each step that was taken advanced them from misery 
towards happiness. 

The chaise arrived at the Single Cottage : every thing was ready : a 
moment more, and Albert and Madeline would have had their once happy 
abode behind them, perhaps never to be revisited. But even before that 
moment elapsed, their progress was prevented by the appearance of Wah- 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


27 


rend. He knew nothing of what had taken place ; and the usual hour for 
his visit to the cottage being arrived, he was there, full of. expectation that 
the intercession of the senior had carried his point, and that Madeline was 
prepared to listen to his proposals. 

The chaise at the door was a little beyond his comprehension, but he had 
no time to inquire of the postillion its destination, for at that instant Made - 
line made her appearance, fully equipped for her journey. 

“What, you the traveller, Madeline!” cried Wahrend ; “ whither away, 
dear girl ?” 

Heavens, what a sensation came over Madeline at that instant ! From 
the moment of Seaton’s departure, she had not once given a thought to 
Wahrend. But now he rushed upon her presence like some ill-omened 
ghost, and her heart sickened to the death : a thousand thoughts at once 
took possession of her brain, each harrowing deeper than the other. “ Con- 
fusion worse confounded” was upon her, and she tottered as though she 
would have fallen to the earth. 

Wahrend, with scarcely time to be astonished, threw his arm round her 
waist for support. 

“ My dear Madeline!” exclaimed he. 

The perception of being within his embrace restored her strength, and 
she flung herself from his arms with that sort of expression of horror which 
escapes the lips when the whole frame’s blood is curdling with disgust. 

Wahrend was astounded. He had not words wherewith to remonstrate. 

“ Man,” cried Madeline, with uncontrollable energy, “ is it not enough 
that you have robbed me of my mother’s dying blessing, and forced my 
uncle hence, without wringing my heart with a presence that speaks it all 
in words of bitterest anguish. Evil was the hour when first I saw you ! 
Evil— thrice evil !” 

Albert by this time had followed his sister from the cottage. He had 
already half-guessed that Wahrend was the corner-stone of the dispute 
between his sister and Seaton, and her manner now confirmed it. 

“ Sister,” whispered he, as she was going on to pour out her wrath 
against the innocent cause of what had been nurtured into evil fruit by her 
own ungovernable violence — “ Sister, remember our uncle’s letter! — Re- 
member the sacredness of our present mission!” 

The appeal was effective ; for the chord on which it struck was too newly 
fretted not to be sensitive to the merest touch. Her passion dropped ; and 
she resolved, what a thousand times before had been a resolution, for ever 
and for ever to master these outrageous proceedings of a hasty mind. 

“Wahrend,” said she, more gently, “my anger may be wrong; and I 
will therefore exchange what I intended for a command into a supplication. 
Never — oh, never again let us meet ! Once before I said this to you. Let 
it now come with tenfold solemnity to your soul ; and as you would not 
inflict fresh misery on a creature all too miserable already, I beseech you 
never again let us cross each other’s path.” 

Wahrend would have replied, but, too swift for words, she sprang into 
the carriage, and, having beckoned Albert to follow, the chaise drove off, 
.caving the poor Swiss as desolate as he was astounded. 


TRANSFUSION : OR, THE 


28 


CHAPTER VI. 

Sweet pleasure . 

Delicious pleasure ! Earth’s suprernest good, 

The spring of blood, though it dry up our blood. 

Decker. 

That which a man is bred up in he thinks no cheating ; as your tradesman thinks 
not so of his profession, but calls it a mystery. — Selden’s Table Talk. 

The orphans’ road to Geneva led them through the village of Unwalden. 
It would have saved them both something of pain had it been otherwise, 
for the sight of the well-known objects which each moment flitted past 
them awakened them to a sense of the danger of the step they were taking ; 
and the “ curious busy eye” of the street-loiterers that met their gaze, told 
them that all beyond what might be called their native village was a perilous 
maze of uncertainty and suspicion. They were quitting — for ever, per- 
haps— the only place where they were known — the only place they knew. 
All the rest of the world was to them as the great African desert is to the 
eager merchant that seeks the cities beyond its fearful bounds. Albert, tc* 
a certain extent, was in leading-strings ; he had resigned himself to the 
guidance of his elder and more venturous companion, and whatever mis- 
givings he might have were more than compensated by the thought that 
the act, in the commission of which he was engaged, was furnishing satis- 
faction to the human being that he loved best. The lad’s heart was a sea 
of affection that knew no ebb, but was ever ready to acknowledge the im- 
pulse of the spring-tide of love. But Madeline, the more he resigned him- 
self to her, the more she had to consider ; and the thoughts that possessed 
her, as she passed through Unwalden, were fit and comparable associates 
for those which Caesar held when he stood in debate with Pollio on the 
banks of the Rubicon. It was not too late to return. Seaton by his letter 
had placed a skaunt mirror before her eyes, and had compelled her to see 
every thing “ with a difference.” Was she indeed in the commencement 
of an attempt that should deprive Albert and herself of the very means of 
existence? Could Seaton really have been in earnest when he threatened 
that an effort to find him would cause him to withdraw his bounty ? 

This was a heart- heavy question ; and more than once the word trem- 
bled on her lips that should stop the postillion, and cause him to return to 
the Single Cottage. 

But presently other thoughts relieved the feverish anxiety of her mind. 
What was her motive ? Surely any thing but selfishness, or a cold-hearted 
indifference to the happiness of others. She wanted to restore Albert to 
Seaton’s fostering protection. For herself, she cared not. Give her but 
an opportunity to throw herself at her uncle’s feet, and ask his forgiveness 
for what had been rash, but not wicked, in her conduct, and she would not 
flinch at his casting her off, and leaving the world and her to fight out the 
battle of good and evil. 

This thought resolved her. She would go on : — nay, she would do 
more. With the sincerest hope of showing what amelioration, genuine 
penitence and sorrow could work upon her mind, she would summon that 
mind to the use of all its proper and native strength : she would dismiss 
the more worthless particles of grief, and only reserve so much as should 
give sobriety and dignity to her purpose. 


ORPHANS OF UN WALDEN. 


29 


There was something consolatory in all this ; it cheered her to the la- 
bours that were fast spreading before her, and it braced her heart to that 
vigour of action which would command half the victory. 

Albert, to whom her countenance was as a never-ending book, read 
what her passing thoughts there set down ; and before the carriage arrived 
at the inn where they were to stop for the night, both brother and sister felt 
that half their troubles were over, in the consciousness that they had 
gained strength to bear the whole of them. 

The auberge, at which they put up, w'as a delightful specimen of a Swiss 
road-side inn. The low roof, far spreading beyond the walls which it 
sheltered, was nearly overrun with the luxuriance of a vine, which, in its 
turn, crept up those walls to shelter the roof: near at hand stood a rude 
model of “ purple Bacchus, jolly god and the tendrils of the luxuriant 
creeper seemed to stretch towards him, that they might afford him a crown 
worthy of his reputation. The deep panelled door, always open to welcome 
the wayfarer, proclaimed an age gone by ; while the smoking chimney as 
evidently announced that hospitality had not yet forsaken the antique 
dwelling. 

When our two young travellers descended from their conveyance, they 
were ushered into the kitchen — that huge receptacle for all sorts of guests, 
from the highest to the lowest on the Continent — where sat two or three 
of that mixed sort which might be expected to be the chance product of 
such a place. Albert and Madeline both cast their eyes uneasily round 
the room, for both felt that at that moment they were no fit companions for 
so promiscuous a company ; there were many things yet to be talked over, 
many points to be considered, all of which required solitude and quiet. 

Madeline at length took courage to inquire for a private room, though 
she hardly knew whether in so doing she was not infringing the rule of 
road into which that day was her first initiation ; and truly it is not every 
inn in Switzerland that can boast of the accommodation which she was 
seeking. Fortune, however, this time was on her side, and the good 
woman of the house showed them into a little apartment up stairs, adorned 
with a venerable portrait of William Tell, or Moses ; for on this particular 
there was a standing dispute of many years between the hostess and her 
husband — where every thing seemed as promising of tranquillity and un- 
interruptedness as even Madeline could desire. 

Scarcely, however, were they fairly established in their retirement, when 
the sound of horses’ hoofs w as heard clattering at the door of the hostel. 
Madeline, with the thought of Seaton ever uppermost in her mind, could 
not help casting a glance from the window of her apartment, with a hope 
that was hardly acknowledged to herself. That one glance, however, was 
sufficient to check the embryo, for her eye told her at once that there was 
no uncle among the gay and noisy party that had just made the road-side 
inn their resting-place. 

But who is he that rides so gay and debonair among the foremost of the 
knot ? It is the young Count de Mara, the pride of the party, the very 
oracle and chief commander of the troop, the aspiring spirit to w'hom all 
lesser looked for the life of the day, the high master and promoter of all 
their mad revels and hey-day frolics. 

As we have said, it was not alone that De Mara approached the road- 
side inn. Half a dozen sparkling gallants rode in his company, and ever 
and anon they made the old rocks that overhung the road by which they 
travelled echo to their laughter. The joke, the bon-mot, and the repartee 
passed briskly from the one to the other ; but it was when the count spoke 
that the loudest laugh followed ; and it w'as in answ'er to his tropes and 
figures that the gay welcome of enjoyment was most freely ceded. He 
was, as it were, the Mercury of the party ; the very head and front of all 
3 * 


30 


TRANSFUSION : OR, THE 


that wa3 joyous amongst them, and from whom the remainder were con- 
tent to borrow their tone and lustre. 

“ An inn ! and in good time !” cried the young Chevalier Altoz, who 
was the first to perceive the abode where we have for awhile safely housed 
the orphans of Unwalden. 

“ Gentlemen,” said the count, “ I know what admirable Quixotes ye 
be — Altoz claiming no less than to come from Mancha himself. For the 
nonce we will castellate yonder inn, that we may adjudge ourselves the 
more honour in taking it by storm. Forward ! Charge !” — 

And away the party galloped for their destination, pricking their horses 
to as venturous a pace as though their course lay over some wide undevia- 
ting plain, instead of along a track barely nicked into the slant of a rock, 
with a cliff on the one hand and a precipice on the other. 

They neared the inn. and in another minute clattered up to the door, 
each at his fullest speed. The landlord was pretty well aghast at this new 
accession of company : it was something quite out of his routine, and he 
knew no more of what would be fitting behaviour to put on, than if ho 
had been called upon at the moment to give the* becoming salaam to the 
Emperor of China on being summoned to the footstep of the celestial throne. 
One look was a sufficer ; he saw that the whole cortege was beyond his 
element, and he left the affair in the more skilful hands of his wife. 

She, good woman, fumed and bustled ; but it was not much that re- 
mained for her to do. The intruders, finding the door open, took it for 
granted that the garrison surrendered at discretion ; whereon they rushed 
into the kitchen to see what plunder was to be had, and, after awhile, 
called on the landlord, quit commandant, to offer his terms of capitulation. 

The landlord, however, declined in favour of the hostess. It was a wise 
policy : the besiegers, in regard to the fair sex, consented to sink the castle, 
and stand upon the fact of their being mere guests at an inn. 

Wine was brought ; such eatables as the place could afford were pro- 
duced ; and in a few minutes the roof of the kitchen was taught, as the 
rocks before it, to echo to the tune of their merriment. 

“ But, most noble count,” cried Altoz, taking advantage of a pause in 
the conversation, “ with all respect for the powers and skill of so renowned 
a leader, will it not please you to allow your followers by this time to 
know the reasons for bringing them so many miles from Geneva?” 

“ And on so rough a road too !” said another of the party : “ as I hope 
to see Geneva again, and never more look down a precipice five hundred 
feet deep with blackness at the bottom ; — nothing but a most just reason 
will content me.” 

“ A reason you would have,” cried the count ; “ listen to a most just one. 

I brought you here for pleasure !” 

“ Pleasure 1” exclaimed three or four at once. 

“ I claim the right of interpreting,” said one who might be taken for the 
eldest of the party, and who on that ground was desirous of being held 
somewhat oracular in his observations. 

“ List, oh, list to the Pythoness,” cried Altoz. 

“ For shame, chevalier,” joined the count ; “ what ! make an old woman 
of Maravelli, and at least a year before his time too ?” 

“ Nor only that,” added the one who had complained of the roughness 
of the road, and whom De Mara ludicrously distinguished by the title of 
‘ Mon Petit,’ to which he had about as small a claim as the celebrated 
English Little John of Greenwood-tree fame— “nor only that, but an old 
woman, and a witch to boot — else I have forgotten my schooling.” 

“ The laws against, witchcraft in Switzerland are very severe,” gravely 
remarked Altoz. 

“Nay, be of good cheer, Maravelli,” said the count; “ it is only in Ca- 


ORPHANS OF UNYVALDEN. 


31 


tholic Switzerland that they will give you the chance of sinking or swim- 
ming : here you may enjoy your otium cum dignitate, secure under the ban- 
ner of Calvin.” 

“ Gentlemen, gentlemen, 1 demand fair play,” cried Maravelli somewhat 
hastily : “ you are fond of calling yourselves ‘ The Knot,’ — and with good 
cause, for you draw so close together that one cannot get in a word among 
ye. Here you have set me down for a witch without waiting to learn whe- 
ther I had wisdom enough to support the character.” 

“ Good reason why,” cried Altoz ; “we judged your merits by the beard.” 

This produced a laugh against the Italian, for of all things he prided 
himself on the care with which he cultivated the adornment to which Altoz 
had so maliciously alluded. 

“Well, gentlemen,” said he, peevishly, “ if you choose to let the count 
off at my expense it is all very w’ell.” 

“Truly remarked,” cried Mon Petit; “I claim a verdict against the 
count, or a sufficing reason from him, for my whole frame is involved in one 
perpetual ache with the jolting I and my horse have received over these in- 
tolerable roads. The animal is twenty louis worse in value than when he 
quitted his stable this morning.” 

“I will stand,” said De Mara, “on the reason I have already given. I 
brought you here for pleasure.” 

“And I will stand on my interpretation,” cried Maravelli, again pushing 
himself forward : “ the count has omitted a little word wherein lies the dif- 
ference ; not for pleasure, but for his pleasure has he brought us here.” 

“ Maravelli is a wise interpreter,” cried Mon Petit, “ on the faith of a 
jolted gentleman.” 

“ Then is he a good witch,” said the count, “ that stands confessed on 
his own pleading, and his beard may come off with a sauve qui peut .” 

“ The count plays his game skilfully,” exclaimed Maravelli, “ and hopes 
to be quit by a counter-attack, but I trust to the support of The Knot that 
his strength may not escape through my weakness.” 

“ A verdict, or a defence,” cried those that were appealed to. 

“ Now can I call you no other than the most ungrateful of men,” replied 
De Mara ; “ were you not when I called you together this morning yawn- 
ing and dozing your faculties away — wandering what next you might do 
to get rid of the too long hours ? Have 1 not tempted you from the weari- 
ness of brick buildings and regulated streets to the rock-raised marvels of 
nature, and the wildernesses of the same creation, knowing neither law nor 
rule save the eternal, which hath fitness for its foundation ? Have I not in 
my bounty — but save me from a defence, wherein the poetic has so large a 
share, in a public kitchen. Yonder bumpkin looks as if he could swallow 
rocks and wildernesses both at a mouthful.” 

“ The offender, ” cried Altoz, “has some sort of claim to our considera- 
tion, for his defence opened well, though I am afraid that what he admits 
to be poetic will end in fiction. Call hither our hostess, however, and we 
will indulge him with a private room. Good dame,” continued he, seeing 
the landlady at hand, “ what can you do for us in the way of an apartment 
to ourselves ?” 

The hostess, thus queried, was full of apologies, that her house could 
afford no better accommodation for persons of their rank ; but the only 
room to which the term private could be given, was already occupied by a 
young lady and gentleman, who were resting there for the night on their 
journey towards Geneva. 

“ Are you quite sure,” cried Maravelli, “ that there is a gentleman as 
well as a lady of the party ? for if not,” added he, looking significantly at 
the count, “I should be strongly confirmed in interpretation of the word 
‘ pleasure,’ which I so lately offered to the notice of The Knot.” 


transfusion: or, the 


S3 

“ Oh dear, yes,” said the hostess ; “ the gentleman is the brother of ma- 
demoiselle ; but, poor young man, he was born deaf ; — at least so says 
ZurofThere, who is well acquainted with Unwalden, from which place they 
are travelling to Geneva. For my part, I can't think how they have taught 
him to speak so prettily, if he can’t hear a word that has been said to him 
all his life.” 

“ The young lady,” cried Altoz, “ must find him but dull company. 
What say you hostess, will you be the bearer of our respects, and an ad- 
dition to the effect that we shall be glad to join her company for the even- 
ing, or even to see her safe to Geneva (as it is that road she travels) at her 
own time and opportunity ?” 

“ I am afraid the message would but ill accord,” replied the good dame, 
“ for they both appear in a somewhat melancholy mood, and I could see 
their eyes glisten so moistly, dear souls, that it seemed to want but little to 
make their glistening tears.” 

“ Poor things I” cried Mon Petit, “ from my soul I pity them : to-mor- 
row’s road once attempted, and the tears will be jolted from them, if they 
are indeed to-night so near the full.” 

“ And so, Goody,” asked Altoz, “you hold my message to be naught?” 

“ Truly, sir, all is naught that injures. The young lady’s mind is in no 
cue for such visiters.” 

“ But are you sure,” cried De Mara, “ that your conclusions are correct ? 
Instances,” added he, locking at Maraveili — “ instances have been known 
of false interpretations of the simplest matters.” 

“ Oh, sir,” cried our hostess, somewhat tartly, at having her womanly 
powers of penetration questioned ; “ it is no difficult matter to know what 
downcast looks, unsteady steps, and tearful eyes signify. I would not dis- 
turb them, if 1 had a right ; and even that 1 have not, for the room is theirs 
till they choose to resign it.” 

And thus having told all she knew, all she concluded, and all she de- 
termined, the good woman set busily about cooking some little dish that 
Madeline had ordered for supper, and with which she was resolved to take 
extraordinary pains, as it was to be partaken of by ‘ the poor young gentle- 
man who was born deaf.’ 

Maraveili seemed determined to let no interval effect the count’s escape ; 
for no sooner had the hostess concluded her little narrative about the in- 
teresting pair that were sojourning at her hostel, than he revived the 
accusation against him again. 

“ What say you, gentlemen of The Knot,” said he, “ shall we not 
generously spare De Mara the trouble of a defence, and in our mercy 
proceed to judgment? My brain is dancing even now with the universal 
shaking it has undergone. The least we can do is to mulct him in the day’s 
expenses.” 

“ A judgment ! A judgment !” cried two or three of the party. 

“ Gently, gently, my worthies,” interrupted the count ; “ would you 
have me declare you to the world the very princes of ingratitude ? I will 
not shrink from any thing in the shape of a fair proposal ; and now the 
whim is on me, will even make one. Here are Maraveili, the complainant, 
and De Mara, the defendant. 1 give our respected interpreter this offer. I 
will wager the day’s expenses, which he has so liberally proposed to place to 
my account, that I not only join the party up-stairs, but am invited to par- 
lake— nay, more, actually do partake in their supper.” 

“ A fair proposal, and as fairly taken,” cried Maraveili. “ I accept the 
wager, but on one condition, that you ask not for the supper, but are freely 
and fairly invited to it.” 

“My very terms,” said the count. 

“ But will it be fair,” asked Altoz, “ after our hostess’ pretty story, to 


ORPHANS OF UN WALDEN. 


S S 

trespass on the poor girl’s seclusion ? I protest I have quite a picture of 
their sorrows before my eyes, and am mightily taken with the scene.” 

“ On the faith of a gentleman,” answered De Mara, “ it shall be done 
most graciously on my part : perhaps a little romance may creep in, but no- 
thing offensive. Am I not a Frenchman, and the most devoted of my nation 
to the service of beauty? Tell me, then, when does it look so lovely, and 
when has it so great a claim on such vows as I have taken in its favour, as 
when it is overborne by the heaviness of sorrow ? The bland smile, the cun- 
ning dimple, and the laughing eye, all in my estimation give place to the young 
bud that has its sweets closed, not crushed, under the clouds of affliction.” 

“ Bravo,” cried a Spaniard, one of the party ; the fit is on De Mara, and 
1 would not give a maravedi for poor Maravelli’s chance.” 

“ It is no fit,” said De Mara, “ but the settled conviction of my mind. 1 
have no objection to a smile ; heaven forbid that 1 should, for many a sweet 
one have I had lavished on me. But women always appear to me to think 
that they were made to smile. They carry their smiles about with them, 
as they do their parasols in sunny weather ; and that man is a bold one 
who shall undertake to pronounce on the genuineness of each that flits 
across a lady’s cheek. Tell a fair one that she looks like Venus fresh 
from her native sea, and she smiles while she cries ‘ Oh, fie !’ Tell her 
that her favourite gossip lies sick of the small-pox, and she smiles, while 
she cries, ‘ How I pity the poor soul !’ ” 

“ But all this argues nothing in favour of sorrow.” 

“ Pardon me ! It gains half the battle. Destroy your opponent’s argu- 
ment, and you have already nearly secured an easy victory for your own. 
But I have stronger grounds on which to set my position. I am in love 
with a pretty woman’s affliction for its own intrinsic excellences. In the 
first place, it has novelty to recommend it : a woman never looks grieved 
for the look’s sake : she may falsely write pleasure, sulkiness, slyness, or 
wisdom, on the look of her countenance, but when sadness is there, it has 
the heart’s honesty to justify it. A woman’s heart was never made for 
grief ; its fine elasticity enables it to get rid of sorrow as the breeze of spring 
drives the April cloud beyond the demi-cerulean ; so that what might other- 
wise be painful has its sting extracted by the reflection, that yet a little, and 
the eye’s dulness will pass away, and you feel that you must be quick in 
enjoying the melting novelty, or the opportunity will have vanished, and 
left no trace behind. But novelty is not the only recommendation. Sad- 
ness gives a delightful sobriety to a countenance, otherwise too much in 
sunshine. A picture all gamboge affords no enjoyment— so a face all sun- 
shine, and for ever, approaches the usque ad nauseam : if you know not 
darkness you cannot appreciate the advantage of light ; and when you 
find a lady’s face never otherwise than smiling, it is time to suspect a want 
of meaning — a blank within.” 

“ Most admirably delivered,” cried Maravelli, and I begin to fear the fate 
of my wager.” 

“ And now for its execution,” said De Mara ; — “ you have made your 
bargain with me, and I, in return, condition that none of The Knot are 
either to recognise me, or notice my proceedings, whatever they may be, 
unless I should call upon them to do so.” 

The condition was accepted, and De Mara withdrew to make his pre- 
parations. Zuroff, to whom the landlady had alluded in her conversation, 
and the postillion that drove the orphans to the auberge, were summoned 
to his council, in order that he might know, as far as possible, on what 
grounds he might be able to rest his scheme. Things were put in motion 
on all hands : and the count, whose very soul was project, seemed ab- 
sorbed in the luxury his nature derived from the operations in which he 
was soon plunged to his heart’s content. 


84 


TRANSFUSION : OR, THE 


CHAPTER VII. 

What an ill orator has virtue got here ! 

Middleton and Rowley’s Fair Quarrel. 

Ceremony has made many fools. 

It is by timorous honours, pale respects, 

Idle degrees of fear, men make their ways 

Hard of themselves. — O ld Play. 

As no one was present at the count’s course of inquiry with Zuroff and 
the postillion, it is difficult to pronounce how much information he obtained 
from them as to the true state of our young travellers’ condition. A de- 
parture from Unwalden in a travelling carriage, however, was so far a ra- 
rity, that it cannot be doubted that such an event, when coupled with the 
fact of its being undertaken by a young lad and his sister, who, till that 
day, had been supposed to form part of the most staid and sober family in 
the village, gave rise to that freedom of speculation in which people will 
indulge, who think it preferable to attend to other persons’ affairs than to 
their own. Some of these profound and illustrating speculations must of 
course have reached the ear of the postillion, for he w as in a manner the 
nucleus wherein all these conjectures centered, seeing that he was the only 
member connected with the departure at whom the gossips could get for 
the purpose of talking over their infinite nothings, which formed a budget 
worthy of Sancho Panza’s most talkative intervals. 

Whatever the postillion knew, either from his own or these most verita- 
ble sources, was most unquestionably made over to De Mara, for it was 
impossible for the driver of horses to withstand the touch of a louis-d’or, 
especially when the purchase in return was merely a taie of babble, that, 
for aught he cared, any body might have had for nothing, when no larger 
sum was to be got by it. Zuroff’s brain fully admitted the force of the 
same argument ; and the consequence was, that their knowledge on the 
subject, whatever its extent might be, was speedily made over to him who 
paid so liberal a largesse to obtain it. 

We cannot take upon ourselves to say that De Mara was satisfied with 
the information that had thus been gained. But here was no matter of 
choice : — it was one of sheer necessity. All that was to be learned for the 
nonce he had obtained ; and on that capital, whether large or small, he 
was bound by the limit of his wager to trade this venture. 

Thus far armed then towards his success, and seeing no obstacle to his 
at least entering the apartment where Madeline and her brother had taken 
up their quarters for the evening, he proceeded thither at once, determined 
to trust to his own vein of invention to excuse the intrusion which he me- 
ditated. Matters, however, were not destined to run quite so smooth. Just 
as he had gained the landing that led to their room, and deemed himself 
safely within sight of harbour, he was met by the landlady, who was that 
moment quitting her young guests, having again forced herself upon them 
in her officiousness to make the orphans, whom she had greatly taken into 
her favour, as comfortable as her means might afford. 

“ Sir,” cried she, somewhat surprised at finding the nobleman in this for- 
bidden part of the auberge, “ you must have mistaken your way. It is 
down stairs that your friends are carousing.” 

“ By no means,” replied De Mara, internally cursing his evil stars at be- 


ORPHANS OF UN WALDEN. 


35 


ing thus crossed upon the very threshold of the undertaking — “ by no means, 
my good lady. It is your wine, and not I, that has mistaken the way. The 
air below is somewhat close : — now, in yonder room, if I might be indulged 
with a window-seat and five minutes’ enjoyment of the mountain breeze, 
I will warrant the abatement of the oppressiveness I feel.” 

“It is no bedchamber, that,” said the hostess, drily : — “nor does it even 
contain a couch ; and without the one or the other, I fear the relief you seek 
is somewhat questionable.” 

“ Oh, for shame, hostess, for shame !” cried De Mara, “would you do 
your own liquor so little credit as to insinuate that it must be slept off ? I 
tell you, dame, five inspirations of pure air from yon window, of which 1 
caught a glimpse as you opened the door, would work a miracle towards 
my recovery, and save-the character of your vintage into the bargain.” 

“ Sir, to be brief, into that room you must not enter. I pray you in cour- 
tesy to descend ” 

“I never descend,” interrupted the count with a laugh, “especially after 
a carouse. — Fa la l In good sooth I must pass.” And he began playfully 
to endeavour to elude the hostess, who resolutely Jpept her ground between 
him and the door of Madeline’s apartment, while she cried — “Now, good 
sir: — indeed, as a gentleman ; — you will force me to call the servants!” 

The count in part gained his point not, indeed, that he obtained an in- 
gress, but she whom he sought appeared at the door by which he would 
have entered. 

“ Good hostess,” said Madeline, mournfully, “ I entreat that this noise 
may be spared. I am as one distraught already.” 

“Indeed,” replied the mistress of the auberge, more than ever angered 
that her guest should have been disturbed, “indeed, it rests not with me. 
This uncivil person — for 1 no longer know him as a gentleman — would 
have forced an entrance into your apartment, and I only sought to stop him.” 

“Force an entrance!” cried Madeline, and her eye half-kindled to its 
wonted fire at the thought of her melancholy privacy being intruded upon. 

The nobleman saw his danger, and that there was not a moment to spare, 
for scarcely so long did the opportunity promise to last. 

“Nay,” cried he, “one w r ord in defence! Our hostess has somewhat 
overcharged the statement. I was but faint with heat, and sought the near- 
est window, little imagining that in so doing I should disturb any lady’s 
right of solitude. I wish,” added he, suffering his tone to brighten on, per- 
ceiving that the maiden bowed in acknowledgment of his apology, “ I wish 
that the good dame would take a lesson from the w T ay in which I saw an- 
other of her sisterhood tend a traveller this morning on his road to Geneva. 
The poor old gentleman seemed to have ridden to the utmost of his strength, 
for scarcely was he off* his horse, when his head drooped, and his counte- 
nance turned ashy pale.” 

Madeline was caught in the first cast of the wily fisher’s net. An elderly 
stranger on his w r ay to Geneva, his strength worn out with riding. The 
whole picture stuck hard upon her heart. 

“Ah, my obstinate hostess,” continued De Mara, w r arily following up 
his advantage, “then might you have taken a lesson from the good dame 
of the Bouteille de Fin. Had you seen how she cherished the elder — how 
she pillowed his w T eak head on her shoulder — how she supported his totter 
ing steps into the house — you would have felt proud of the opportunity my 
dizziness lately afforded you of imitating so admirable an example.” 

“ Good sir,” cried Madeline, eagerly, “ I pray you w r alk in. The win- 
dow and the room are heartily at your service. Perhaps,” continued she, 
with a slight tremor in her voice — and they entered the room together — 

“ perhaps you may remember somewhat further of this story. I — I — feel 
deeply interested— in — ” 


36 TRANSFUSION : OR, THE 

And then no longer able to withhold herself, she burst into a passionate 
flood of tears. 

“ Dear madam,’’ exclaimed the count, soothingly, “ any thing J may 
remember or know is entirely at your command. The gentleman, of whom 
I spoke, was a reverend elder — if I might guess, I should say a clergyman, 
save that the serenity of his countenance, which I could trace to be its 
habit, was disturbed, and convulsive involuntary movements would spread 
themselves over his fine face, as though it were responsive to the inward 
workings of a troubled heart.” 

* ’Tis he ! ’tis he !” sobbed Madeline. “ Oh that mine had been the 
shoulder — the bosom to pillow his afflicted head ! By all that is sacred, I 
entreat you to guide me to the inn where you left him in his sorrow. Why 
should the darkness of night stay us ? A heavier darkness overshadows 
his peace, and a thousand guilty stings call on me to speed to his injured 
presence, and sigh out my repentance at his feet.” 

De Mara was somewhat confounded at the suddenness of this request. 
For himself, he did not care much about the proprieties, but it was some- 
what beyond his calculation to find so young and beautiful a female thus 
throwing herself upon the honour and guidance of a stranger at a bare 
moment’s notice. The most annoying point, however, was, that he was 
a little too far involved in fiction to avail himself of the offer ; for, with all 
his ingenuity, he doubted whether he could find a Bouteille de Fin, where 
an elder!; gentleman had been so obliging as to faint away for the occa- 
sion. ConH 'mmate, then, as he was in the arts of deceit, the whole of 
these difficulties, facing him at once, made him pause for a moment ere he 
furnished a reply to the maiden’s eager petition. 

“ You hesitate !” cried Madeline : — indeed — indeed — ” 

“ If I hesitate,” answered the count, “ it is from the fear that what I have 
to say may wound your excited feelings more than I could wish.” 

Madeline became alarmed, and the blood was with her cheek, and away 
again, in less than a moment. At length — “ if,” said she, “ there is yet 
worse for me to hear, be merciful, and deliver it quickly. You would say 
that my uncle — ” 

“Your uncle! Was that reverend indeed your uncle ? — Then it was 
fortunate that I stayed at the Bouteille. de Fin long enough to see the end 
of the affair.” 

“ Fortunate ! — End !” cried Madeline ; “ oh, for mercy, what end ?” 

“ Nay, be not alarmed,” answered the count. “When I said that I 
might wound your feelings, it was because I had to confess my incompe- 
tency to conduct you to your uncle ; for before I quitted the Bouteille de Fin , 
he had so far recovered from the fatigue which had overpowered him as to 
mount his horse again, and proceed on his road towards Geneva.” 

Madeline for the moment felt relieved. It was true she had lost her 
present chance of meeting with Seaton, but she had gained the knowledge 
that that which had raised such terrible apprehensions in her mind had 
passed off as a momentary sickness, and not unfitted him whom she sought 
for the renewal of his journey. 

“ But perhaps,” continued she after a pause, and with one sole object 
still in view — “perhaps he mentioned at the inn where he was likely to 
stay on his arrival at Geneva ?” 

“ That could hardly be,” returned the nobleman, “ for I was with him 
the whole time that he rested at the Bouteille de Fin ; and I could not avoid 
observing that there was a secresy about his intentions, which he was de- 
termined to preserve, and which appeared to have entire concealment of 
his motions for its object.” 

Madeline sighed; but still her heart w r as somewhat at rest with the 
thought that she had procured certain information of Seaton’s progress to 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


87 


Geneva, and that Madame Lalande’s abode there still furnished a hope 
that she might be able to trace him as soon as she reached that city. 

The recurrence of that lady’s name to her thoughts brought it to her 
utterance. 

“ May I ask, sir,” said she, 41 if you are an inhabitant of Geneva ?” 

“ It is at present my abode,” replied the count, “ but I am a native of 
France.” 

“ Possibly you may know a lady of the name of Lalande, a resident in 
Geneva ?” 

The count was obliged to acknowledge himself ignorant on that point; 
“ but was it essential to mademoiselle to procure that lady’s address ?” 

The answer to this question led to further conversation, in the course of 
which Madeline, who in her calamitous situation was ready to look upon 
any one that would listen to her misfortunes in the light of a friend, was 
induced to relate the circumstances which had brought her thus far from 
Unwalden on her road to Geneva. The stranger had already shown him- 
self interested in her story ; he had even in a manner acted a part in the 
little drama of the day ; and she saw no necessity to suppress those fuller 
details, of which he had already gathered the outlines by those passionate 
exclamations to which she had yielded when the memory of Seaton was so 
vividly presented to her mind. It is one of the attributes of a frank and 
candid disposition, uncontaminated by the world’s cold selfishness, to 
believe that all others, with which it may come in contact, are cast in the 
same mould ; and it adopts in all the consciousness of its own sincerity 
of intention the first overtures that are made to it in the way of kindness. 

It is impossible for words to do justice to the manner in which Madeline 
related her simple story ; and Count de Mara, all-accomplished as he was 
in the ways of women, was compelled to acknowledge to himself that this 
was nature indeed — nature in her loveliest shape, to which till that moment 
he had been a stranger. Up to this period he had looked upon the know- 
ledge and interpretation of women as a sort of science, to which by right 
of innumerable instances he had fully attained. But here was something 
with which he had never met before. It was impossible to resist the enthu- 
siastic praises which Madeline lavished on the care-bent Seaton ; it was 
impossible to gainsay the generous indignation with which she upbraided 
herself for having caused his departure so abruptly and unkindly ; it was 
impossible to listen to the sweet flow of eloquence with which she bedecked 
her brother’s character without believing that he must be every thing worthy 
of being loved, if capable of drawing such words from a being, herself so 
lovely and persuasive. 

It was well for the count, perhaps, that Madeline’s ardent detail called 
for no interruption on his part ; or, with all his ready wit and spirit of in- 
vention, he might have forgotten the character up to which he had to act, 
and have so irretrievably lost himself in truth as to be unable to recover the 
tortuous path which he loved so well, and out of which (so much had habit 
prevailed) he felt himself beyond bis element. 

Ere she paused, however, he had found time to resolve his mind as to 
what course he would pursue ; and with this object before him, he led her 
to speak of her future prospects— of what she expected, what she hoped, 
and what she feared. 

“ But after all,” continued Madeline, “the whole must depend on my 
meeting with Madame Lalande. After what I have related to you,” added 
she, “you will not be surprised wdien I tell you that I look upon this old 
friend of my mother as the best known hope I have in the world, either to 
restore me to my uncle, or, in his absence, to guide my steps aright.” 

De Mara’s eyes kindled at this announcement, which so well accorded 
with the plan that he had already concocted in his mind. 

50—4 


S3 


transfusion: or, the 


Madeline perceived it. “You smile, sir,” said she ; “I hope it bodes 
good fortune for your suppliant.” 

“ It is at the thought that I may be able to discover this Madame Lalande 
for you,” replied the count. 

“ Oh, sir, do that, and indeed you will prove my friend.” 

“I have a friend below,” continued De Mara, “ who is much better ac- 
quainted with Geneva than 1 can pretend to be, as he has resided there for 
some years. We will consult him, with your permission ; and at all events, 
if he knows not the lady, he may be able to point out some method by 
which her place of residence is likely to be found.” 

Madeline entreated the count to request the presence of his friend im- 
mediately ; and he accordingly withdrew for that purpose. 

Ere many minutes had elapsed, and almost before Madeline had found 
time to communicate by signs to Albert what was taking place in tne pro- 
secution of their object, De Mara returned with the Chevalier Altoz, and 
introduced him by that name to the lady. 

“ We are indeed fortunate,” continued the count, “for the chevalier is 
not only acquainted with Madame Lalande by name, but has a slight per- 
sonal knowledge of her also; so that you have only to reach Geneva to 
meet with her directly.” 

Madeline could hardly believe that she heard aright, for so convinced 
was she, that through Madame Lalande she should be able to trace Seaton, 
that the finding this lady appeared to her to be the cast upon which she 
had set her soul ; and to have the introduction to her thus easily unravelled, 
was an event almost beyond her expectation ; for, although on Albert first 
originating the idea, the thing had appeared easy to her unsophisticated 
mind, yet subsequent reflection, and some conversation which she had had on 
the matter with the postillion and the hostess, had had the effect of consi- 
derably damping her hopes. 

“ And may I trust to your friend,” said she, almost with rapture in her 
voice, “ to guide me to the dear lady, on whom all my hopes of happiness 
are now resting?” 

“ Most assuredly,” said Altoz; “and I cannot but congratulate myself 
on being able at so cheap a rate to oblige a lady, who has a right, both 
from circumstances and appearance, to command all my services.” * 

“ And what sort of a lady is my dear Madame Lalande ?” asked Made- 
line, whose heart was overflowing at the thought of meeting her on the 
morrow, and who was eager to be prepared on all points for the approach- 
ing interview. ' rr 

Altoz looked somewhat confused, while De Mara stopped any thin® ho 
might have attempted to say with a laugh, observing— “ Poor chevafier ! 
you could not have asked mm a more unlucky question. Sorry am I al- 
ready to have to announce my friend’s failings on so short an acquaintance • 
but, in honest tiuth, never was there a man of less observation. If he had 
seen Madame Lalande a thousand times, I will venture to say he would 

fert — » W W iether She WaS a giant or a dwarf - 1 can g^e it you as a 

“ No r “ cts , p. e cried Altoz with a half-blush : “ as to vour 

ments, when this lady knows you as well as 1 do, she will understan 
spirit in which they are made, and heed them as little ” 

“ Dh but you must haae the fact,” continued the iount, “it illustrates 
so beautifully. Believe me, dear madam, this gentleman, modest thou-h 
he seems, had the assurance, when in Spain, to propose to some Don Man. 
mfico or another for his daughter; and by dint of certain rumours* thSt 
went abroad touching the largeness of his fortune and the ancient blood 
that flowed in his veins, he obtained permission to make a visit of form 
His audience lasted an hour and a half. Heaven only knows what Sii 


com- 
understand the 


ORPHANS OF UN WALDEN. 


89 


Bashful found to say to occupy all that time ; but when I sought him to 
learn his success, and was all impatience for a most florid description of 
the lady, he positively broke down on the very first stage, not being quite 
sure whether her hair was auburn or black.” 

The laugh that De Mara raised against his friend by this anecdote was 
interrupted by the entry of the landlady, who, with not the pleasantest 
look in the world, whispered Madeline. 

“ Let the supper be brought in,” said the maiden aloud, “ for I trust both 
these gentlemen will give me the favour of their company.” 

Altoz gave the count a look of participating triumph, as much as to say, 
41 So your wager is won 1” While the hostess, astonished at the fluctua- 
tion of her young guest, who but a short time before had made it her spe- 
cial request to be left alone and uninterrupted, protested that she had only 
prepared enough for two, and that were the party doubled, she should be 
unable to provide sufficient. 

“ My good friend, the hostess,” said De Mara with a laugh, “ need not 
alarm herself, for both the chevalier and myself are absolutely compelled 
to ’•each Geneva to-night, and consequently have not the hour to spare 
which otherwise would be so Well bestowed, of availing ourselves of made- 
moiselle’s obliging invitation.” 

Altoz stared as if he did not well comprehend the game his friend was 
playing ; but at length imagining that he was only fighting off to be pressed 
more zealously to stay, he exclaimed, “ Do not. you think our business at 
Geneva might be postponed till to-morrow ?” 

‘T trust so indeed,” added Madeline, “ for I had hoped to be ushered by 
you into Geneva, that my meeting with Madame Lalande might be ren- 
dered the more assured.” 

“ That meeting most assuredly shall be made certain,” replied the noble- 
man, ” though unavoidable business prevents our staying to superintend 
your journey to the city. The roads, however, are perfectly safe, and your 
postillion to-morrow morning will drive you under your directions to the 
hotel which is known by the name of the Coq d'Or , where it shall be our 
care to be in attendance to receive you, for the purpose of conducting you 
to Madame Lalande at least, if any unforeseen circumstance should pre- 
vent her coming to the hotel.” 

“ Many, many thanks for the trouble you are taking,” said Madeline ; 
4< the delight you will see depicted on my brother’s countenance and mine, 
should it lead to the recovery of my uncle, will, I think, reward you.” 

The count bowed his acknowledgments, and then, after a somewhat 
more formal leave-taking, in which he was joined by Altoz, the two gentle- 
men withdrew. 


40 


TRANSFUSION : OR, THE 


CHAPTER VIII. 

The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides, 

The woods, wild-scatter’d, clothe their ample sides, 

Th’ outstretching lake, embosom’d ’mong the hills, 

The eye with wonder and amazement fills. — B urns. 

The one of them, the false Duessa night, 

That now had changed her former wonted hue ; 

For she could don so many shapes in sight, 

As ever could cameleon colours new ; 

So could she forge all colours save the true. 

The Faerie Q,ueene. 

“ In the name of wonder,” said Altoz to his friend, as they descended 
the stairs, “ what is the meaning of this ? It is a new movement of pride 
for the most redoubtable and unaccountable Count De Mara to be within 
grasp of his object, and then throw down the whole machinery, as children 
in a pet get rid of a house of cards. Now, prithee, what was it ? Did my 
countship smell garlic when the hostess opened the door to announce sup- 
per ? Or is the rumour true, that even the stoutest heart quakes at the dis- 
pleasure of a landlady ?” 

“Most admirably spoken!” replied De Mara, with a laugh; “what 
pity that ’twas not grounded in common sense! Oh, most short-sighted 
friend, cannot you imagine that I may have been so struck with the girl up- 
stairs as to wish to find in her something beyond a mere supper acquain- 
tance ?” 

“In truth, I guessed as much,” said the chevalier; “but that only serves 
to make the thing stranger. Rome was not built in a day ; and to my sim- 
ple comprehension, an accepted supper invitation, with a promised escort to 
Geneva in the distance, would have formed no bad commencement to 
greater opportunities.” 

“ Simply comprehended, indeed, my friend ! Oh that I could teach you 
wisdom in the ways of women ! Believe me, while I speak it in all serious- 
ness, this Madeline Schvolen, for such she tells me is her name, has to her 
share no small power of mind. I can in part excuse your not discovering 
it, as you had not all the advantages that I had in hearing her tell her own 
story, and draw her own conclusions.” 

“ But holding that she be a very Madame Dacier in learning, or no less 
than a Ctueen Elizabeth of England in power, still, where was the reason 
for our turning our backs when she offered us so fair-faced an opportunity 
of improving our acquaintance ?” 

“ Positively, Altoz, you get beyond endurance. Have I not told her that 
you can conduct her to Madame Lalande? Have 1 not promised to be in 
attendance at the Coq (FOv by noon to-morrow, to introduce her to that par- 
ticular acquaintance of yours? Think you then, that with these tasks on 
my hands, I had any time to stay and sup, when there is yet a Madame 
Lalande to be found, and a thousand instructions to be given before to- 
morrow noon, in order to set matters in a right train for the maiden’s recep- 
tion ?” 

“ Cry you mercy,” said the chevalier, “I do begin to see wisdom in our 
departure.” 

“Prodigious! Have I already enlightened you so far? Then, prithee, 
good chevalier, make bold, as I do, to tread lightly along this passage, and 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


41 


lo horse, before those boisterous messmen of an idle hour, who are now 
doubtless under Maravelli’s tuition, drinking ill success to our supper get 
a hint that we have given them the slip.” 1 

“ But, think ye, they will not resent our unceremonious absence, and, by 
some unlucky disclosure, mar the plot which already promises to be worthy 
of even your plotful genius ?” 

“ Well bethought,” replied De Mara ; “ 1 will pass a word to Maravelli, 
which shall prevent so ill-omened a change in my worship of Cupid and his 
freakful mother. It is only giving the Italian a supposed triumph over mo 
for the time. And now, chevalier, lightly— lightly by this turning, and 
without a breath. To have them upon me in their present hurly-burly 
mood would be death to all my projects.” 

Altoz did as he was requested, and in a few minutes the pair found them- 
selves in front of the inn ; the horses were out in a minute, and De Mara, 
having handed a pencil note to the ostler to he delivered to Maravelli in 
explanation of his departure, vaulted into his saddle in a twinkling, and, 
accompanied by Altoz, galloped off fof Geneva. 

Long time they pursued their hurried pace without a word falling from 
cither. Indeed, the rapidity with which they pushed for the city pretty 
nearly precluded them from conversation. At length, Altoz, willing to 
know something further of his leader’s intentions, called out to him that he 
believed his horse had picked up a stone, and that he must stop to ease him 
of the incumbrance. 

“ Not for a moment, dear Altoz 1” said lire count ; “ for once, for my sake, 
let him hold hi3 pace even at a discomfort. Each moment grows more 
precious as I lose it; we are already far into the night, and my task, as I 
survey it, grows larger and larger.” 

And with this, clapping spurs afresh to his horse, on he bounded with 
increased velocity, as though struggling to exceed the pace of the very car 
of night. 

Altoz, not so full heated with the project that moved them forward at so 
fearful a rate as his companion, could not but observe the sort of road along 
which they held their course ; bold-browcd rocks and deep-mouthed preci- 
pices were upon them on every side ; and, as they came to each winding in 
the road, it seemed to him as if De Mara, who was precursor in their swift 
career, had devoted himself, like a second Martins Curtius, to the yawning 
of the gulf before him, and was ready on the instant to perform his vow. 
Both the riders, however, were admirable horsemen ; and with little more 
than a glance at the strange cracks which past ages had made in Nature s 
bosom, they rode vehemently yet warily onward, now under the deep shade 
of some superimminent crag, and anon emerging thence into the full moon- 
shine, given over and over again from the surface of a dozen petty streams 
and tiny lakes that crossed their path — till at length they reached the stream 
and lake, indeed, where the great and noisy Rhone rushes in double chan- 
nel from the huge expanse of water that ever supplies its course, and where 
that same expanse, spreading on every side, with waves for its surfaee, and 
mountains for its crowning, looks like some vast immeasurable inland sea 
pent up and beating its patient shores for egress and permission to devas- 
tate the southern champaign with its roll of waters. 

Geneva was gained. Then, and not till then, De Mara saw fit to slacken 
his pace ; and, in a few minutes, Altoz, who had been getting more and 
more into the back ground during the latter part of the gallop against time, 
was by his side. 

“ That may be called a very tolerable moonlight ride,” said the count, as 
soon as the chevalier joined him ; u and, had it been performed in England, 
the newspapers there would have rung of the feat for a week, with a daily 
bulletin of the health of our horses after their exertion.” 

4 * 


42 


TRANSFUSION : OR, THE 


“ft is just as well for you,” said the chevalier, ‘‘that the newspapers 
should not ring with the feat ; for, when it is known that men have ridden 
five-and-twenty miles at the rate we have to-night, and over such prettily 
broken ground too, they are apt to inquire for the motive that induced such 
an undertaking.” 

“ Any one may know my motive,” cried the count, with a laugh ; “ for 
it was simply this— my extreme anxiety to pay my earliest respects to 
Madame Deboos.” 

“ Deboos !” cried Altoz ; “ Oh the hag ! — Give you good night, my noblo 
count ; you shall not get me to go an inch nearer her dwelling. 1 thought 
this last turning we made had evil in it, for Guzman stumbled as 1 reined 
him round. When a horse, that has borne me so truly over such places as 
I have seen to-night, comes to a stumble in a smooth street, I might have 
guessed that there was mischief brewing. I would sooner face Hecate, with 
a thousand minor witches in her train, than that infernal Deboos. I never 
cross her path but I think she smells sulphureous, savouring to a degree of 
what Virgil would attribute to Avernus.” 

“Bravo!” exclaimed the count; “these midnight rambles agree with 
my chevalier ; for he has become superstitious and poetical both in a breath. 
We shall make something of you yet, Altoz!” 

“Any thing you will,” replied Altoz, “save and except a disciple of 
Deboos. I forswore her for ever yesterday was a week.” 

“ Oh, if you have dates and oaths to quote, I must rescind. But, be of 
good courage : my friend Deboos is but a woman after all ; and 1 thought 
the Chevalier Altoz was too valorous to shrink from any of the kind. Tell 
me your cause of quarrel at least ?” 

“ How can you ask it ? It lies on the surface, and is evident to all that 
have once been in her company. It lies on the surface, count.” 

“ Nay,” said De Mara, “ if you are quarrelling with an old woman’s 
complexion, there is nothing to be said.” 

“Psha!” replied Altoz, pettishly, “who spoke of her complexion? There 
is such a thing as the surface of the mind as well as the surface of the body. 
What ! is it my turn to become instructor to the all- wise, Count de Mara ?’» 

“ No — no,” cried the count, “ only interpreter of your own meanings. But 
now that you have mentioned the matter of grievance, I will venture a wager 
—and, as l have lost one to-day, I shall take care to do nothin^ rash in that 
way— but I will venture a trifle that I can lav my finger on the flaw in her 
mind's complexion (if that must be the phrase) with which you have fallen 


“ Let me hear. You shall have a candid confirmation if you have lighted 
on the true source.” 3 

“It is, then, her wisdom which has made these odds between you.” 

perhaps — peradventure — and soon.” 

“ Which ‘ so on,’ ” cried the Count, “ means certainly, and out of doubt. 
1 Hu eW Vu r 1 tel1 you why 5 — simply, because I have been acquainted 
with you both full time enough to discover your contrarieties of character. 
If Deboos is not allowed to think that she is the very pilot of all the ocean 
she is called upon to sail m, she becomes as unmanageable as a young horse 
the first day he is committed to the breaker’s care, and will not be ruled by 
aye or nay.” J 

“ You have hit it in part,” said Altoz, but forgot to sum up the conclu- 
sion, which is, that in shunning Scylla, you get upon Charybdis ; for though 

ordained gU,danCe is a < * uarrel P re P ense > to yield to it is ruin for^e- 

“But,” replied the count, “ there is a happy medium still left to him who 
Ca ”, P. lay the g ame ®f Il f e » an <* handle the sinuosities of disposition 
with that niceness of touch which shows the master. Deboos would be pilot. 


ORPHANS OF UN WALDEN. 


43 


Have with her ! But in your manoeuvres be sure that she is only the rudder 
— the apparent instrument of what takes place, but in reality nothing but 
the passive result of the skilful helmsman’s movements. See, Altoz, my 
lecture has brought me to her door. Pluck up your courage, man, and in 
with me, that I may practically illustrate what I flatter myself I have not 
mal-adroitly laid down in principle.” 

“To give my commander in-chief,” said Altoz, with a shrug, “ so fair an 
opportunity of illustrating his principles, I will for once make a sacrifice of 
mine. Believe me, De Mara, it is no small effort for me to consent once 
again to face that domineering devil in petticoats, and 1 therefore pray you 
to observe I attend only as a listener — to con a lesson, if you will have it so. 
Not a word shall escape my lips, for, if I once encourage her attack, I shall 
gain nothing but a bout at scolding, and you still less, for it may go near to 
spoil the purpose for which you are here.” 

“Wisely resolved, my prince of laconics,” cried the count ; “and lest 
so excellent a determination should evaporate, 1 will make the door my 
tell-tale, and see how much beating it takes to rouse a women at two in 
ihe morniug.” 

It was some time, however, before there appeared any likelihood of either 
the one or the other obtaining ingress j and while the count was impa- 
tiently engaged knocking at the door, Altoz, who had no such eagerness 
for admittance, stood laughing at the hurried exclamations with which his 
friend accompanied each repetition of the stroke. 

“Bravo, count, bravo !” cried he, after a more noisy performance of the 
nobleman than ever : “ bravo ! — if this were but the poet’s street of Geneva, 
that last attack would have roused one of the tribe from his bed to dischargo 
his genius in a smile, in which you would have figured as Jove the Thun- 
derer. What! another peal ! Was not the former hint loud enough to 
justify a minute's pause ? Would that you were cloud-compelling Jove as 
well as Jove the Thunderer, that yon bright moon might be hid, and her 
light a little dimmed ; for, if my eyes do not deceive me, I see more than 
one head peeping at us through neighbour window's. Besides, if a stray 
passenger should be drawn this way by the knocking, there is light enough 
to show our plight, which, w'ith the dust of five-and-tvventy long miles on 
our dress, is none of the most splendid.” 

“ Do, for the love of success,” cried the count, “ cease that wonderful 
flow of w'it for a few minutes. I think I hear some one stirring within ; so 
that it be a human being, I care not who or what.” 

“There you are wrong, my friend. If that be not Deboos herself, the 
chances are that you get no admission ; for she will discover that it was 
wrong in any one to rise at such an hour without her specific orders, and 
so deny the opening of the door ; and, if it be Deboos, why then the 
chances still are that you get no admission, for she will discover that such 
a knocking at such an hour was essentially improper, and not to be coun- 
tenanced by suffering him that knocked to gain the object for which he 
knocked.” 

“ Most admirable logician ! Oh that nature should have made such a 
one a chevalier instead of an advocate ! But I was right : I hear a renewed 
movement within. A confirmatory knock may chance to quicken their 
pace.” And again the count, in his impatience, made the door resound. 

Before he had arrived at the end of this concluding peal, the door flew 
open, and Madame Deboos herself appeared in the opening. The figure 
that she presented was not a little extraordinary, and, often as the Cheva- 
lier Altoz had seen her, he could not forbear shrinking by an involuntary 
motion of his body, as it w'ere, from the station which he occupied, when 
he first cast his eyes upon her. Madame Deboos was a woman that had 
probably never been handsome in her best days, further than expression 


44 


transfusion: or, the 


can make the human countenance so ; and now that time had marked 
her line by line, till the deep and expressive furrows of her face were 
striking and perspicuous, any thing that came under the idea of beauty 
was of course out of the question ; but she still was what she had ever 
been— a most commanding creature, something within human nature in- 
deed, but far beyond what we understand as definitely applicable to femi- 
nine human nature. Her stature was towering and lofty, but at the same 
time fully borne out by her general proportions and the perfect carriage 
which she applied to her conditions. The whole head was such a one as 
Michael Angelo might have invented in his boldest moments, when his 
whole soul was on fire to produce something overpowering and out of all 
comparison. But the prodigy above all of the whole countenance was the 
eye ; full, large, and magnificently shaded with nature’s fringe, she could, 
when she pleased, subdue its gaze, and soften it even to soothingness ; but 
when she was roused — when her soul was excited to put on its armour, 
and launch its dart through that medium which has been so finely desig- 
nated “ the soul’s window,” then it was that the power of her eye was felt 
and acknowledged ; then it was that it sent forth its invisible but heartfelt 
messengers, ranging and ranging till it swept into its own circle of in- 
fluence the whole faculties of those it encountered. It was this power, 
still more than her words — and they wanted neither refinement nor search- 
ingness — that had excited more awe in ihe mind of Altoz than he chose to 
confess, and which had not passed De Mara by unfelt, though he was too 
much in love with himself ever to admit, even to his own most inward 
thoughts, that aught in the shape of woman could excite an emotion in his 
bosom to which he was unwilling to give harbourage. 

But though one of these two extremes made up her general appearance, 
this night her countenance had an aspect with which those most accustom- 
ed to her looks were unacquainted. Her countenance, which usually had 
something of the hectic in it, and which, when excited, beca me even florid, 
was now deadly pale. It was as though the hand of death had traversed 
her face, and left its pallid mark behind. The whole of her limbs were 
affected by a slight palsy ; and even her voice partook of the emotion, and 
evinced a tremor never before its wont, as she exclaimed, “ I thought so. 
None short of De Mara could have ventured on such a disturbance at an 
hour when weak hearts and prudent heads deem it wiser to keep the cus- 
tom of the world and sleep away their cares. But you are welcome, my 
friend ; and for the sake of this visit, I can even tolerate Altoz’s impertinen- 
ces, of which I had hoped I had heard and seen the last.” 

“It is a choice meeting on both sides, then, Deboos,” said the count, 
“ for, be sure, I am otherwise too much in love with the decencies, to in- 
trude at such an hour and as he spoke this he gave it emphasis with 
such a sneer as men seldom indulge in, till they feel confident of the 
ground upon which they stand, and the persons by whom their motions are 
surveyed. 

“ Make it choicer,” said the female, “ by sending away that loiterer ; 
and we will to business on the instant.” 

“ That cannot well be,” replied the count, “ for as my present errand 
in part includes the chevalier’s services, I must entreat your patience both 
for my story and his presence.” 

The count then, as briefly as the facts would permit, related his adven- 
tures with Madeline, and repeated the story which she had given to him 
m cxplapation of the motives which had induced her and Albert to quit 
Unvvalden for Geneva. 

“ And now,” continued he, “that you have heard all the circumstances 
of the affair, you may easily guess my motive in coming here. I have the 
honour to salute Madame Lalande.” 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


4 £> 

“Thank Heaven, count,” said the newly-christened lady, “that the 
task you have imposed is an easy one ; for whatever its amount, mi^ht 
have been, I was in no condition to refuse, as you will presently helir. 
But as my business, unlike yours, does not require the services of the che 
vaher, perhaps I may now be allowed to reduce the dialogue to a tltc-h- 

Altoz understood the hint, and, true to his text, without uttering a word 
withdrew. ® * 

“ And now, Lalande-Deboos, or Deboos-Lalande,” cried the count, 
“ how is it that I am to balance the account ?” 

“ Shortly thus, count ; you must let me have three hundred louis-d’ors 
before noon ; lor without that I shall be neither in temper nor condition to 
play this new Lalande’s part, which at best has been given me at short 
notice, and which ought to have some consideration.” 

“ On that head,” replied the count, “ I have no fears. My Deboos has 
her wits too much about her to miss in so small an undertaking : besides, 
all my hints on the subject are contained in this one— Remember, the girl 
has sense. But, then, three hundred louis-d'ors ! Positively, the sunt is 
beyond a joke.” 

“Very likely; but not a whit the less certain that I must have them, 
if 1 had not been the most reasonable of women, I should have asked lor 
four, for the three hundred must be paid away by noon.” 

“Paid away! That is a new feature in your character,” cried the 
count; “ I never before knew you to be in such a hurry to pay money, as 
to dispose of it before you had it. Suppose we make the three hundred 
payable when Madeline has adopted you ?” 

“ Then she never will adopt me,” exclaimed Deboos, passionately ; 
“ for I stir neither hand nor foot in the business till the louis-d’ors are paid. 
Come, come, count, you and I have been too long acquainted to need 
ceremony now ; and you know me well enough to understand, that w hen I 
have said the money must be forthcoming, it is in vain to hope to shake me.” 

“Weil, but at least let me have the satisfaction of knowing how my 
money is to be spent.” 

“Ask it not,” cried Deboos with a shudder: — “would I knew not 
myself. A claim has been made on me this night, which I have not powder 
to resist. Long I fought, boldly I contested, but the monster was too 
much for me : his hold was too griping and irresistible ; and 1 have not 
only promised, but must perform my promise.” 

“Well, well,” cried De Mara; “ the money shall be ready for you if 
you will ccme to my hotel by ten this morning. But you are a strange 
unaccountable creature. I thought w'hen w e entered, something extraor- 
dinary must have passed to have excited you to such a degree.” 

“No, no ! nothing had happened. Never heed the matter. 5 Tis but the 
remains of last night’s fever, and by noon I shall again be myself to receive 
your visiter. At ten, you said, the money should be ready.” 

“ At ten : till then, adieu ! I must seek an hour s repose to brace me for 
the coming day, which promises to be a busy one. Good repose Deboos!” 

And with this the count withdrew to the street, where he found Alloz 
ready mounted and waiting for Iris arrival. 

“ Good repose ! said he ;” cried the female whom he had just quitted : — 
“that must be by and by, when the cold earth and I lie cheek to cheek. 
Till then, thorns for my pillow, and spiked boards for my resting-place : 

unless, indeed ah, that w r as well thought of. It shall be tried.” 

And, as if under the impulse of some sudden arid unprepared emotion, 
she passed quickly to the back of the premises, w here a sort of out-house 
was erected, which appeared to be tilled with all kinds of lumber and ill- 
assorted stores. 


46 


TRANSFUSION : OR, THE 


“ Ur fort, Urfort,” cried she, “come forth, thou creature of shade and 
night.” 

A man, stunted and thickset in his appearance, and whose somewhat 
grizzled locks bespoke the passage of some fifty winters over them, made 
his appearance at her bidding. The contrast between the two was extra- 
ordinary. She of a towering height and figure — he stunted and ill grown 
— made but an ill-matched pair. But look in their faces, and the com- 
parison was still more distinct. She, in her worst moments, had a deep- 
seated, intellectual expression spread over her countenance, which gave 
token of what the creature might have been, had notill passions and swerv- 
ing temper been predominant. But seek for soul in the lineaments of his 
face, and how vain the search ! His best expression was reckless jollity, 
which, as the passions moved him, retrograded rapidly, but surely, to 
staring audacity, malicious cunning, and fixed brutality. 

As soon as he stood before her— “ Urfort,” said she, “ let us parley no 
further. The three hundred louis you ask for shall be yours on one con- 
dition.” 

“ One condition !” cried Urfort: “you shall make three hundred con- 
ditions if you please — or three thousand — or three millions. 1 love condi- 
tions they sound so diplomatic and statesman-like. It always makes 
me think that I am at last quitting the poor rogue to become the rich one.” 

“ Peace, peace, man ! and listen to my proposal. The three hundred 
louis shall be yours.” 

“ Aye ; you said that before : but never mind — I can bear the repetition 
of such a sentiment — or rather fact — (pray, let me mind my grammar) a 
score of times.” 

“ Yours on condition that never again you cross my path : — never, while 
life holds us, see me, speak to me, or write to me ! What say you ?” 

“I say— of course! Why, what now, Goody? — Our days of love are 
long since passed. Why, then, should I say, * Aye’ when you say ‘ Nay V 
Did you fear that part of the gold would be spent in a serenade under your 
window? That might have done when we were in sunny Italy, and all 
our raptures young ; but now neither the climate of heaven nor of our 
feelings suits such pulling crotchets.” 

“ Oh, Urfort, speak not of Italy.” 

“ What, out of conceit with poor Italy too, as well as with me ? Why, 
we had jovial hours there, child. Do you remember the gardens of Pau- 
lini, where we were all laughter? Do you remember the woods of Arva, 
where we were all love ? Do you remember the casino of your uncle — 
requiescat in pace — where — ” 

“Monster, villian ! dare you name him? Dare you remind me of that 
deed of blood, and wickedness ?” 

“Well, well, let it pass then ! not but what it was a good argument when 
you refused the three hundred louis. Apropos, how am I to receive the 
same ?” 

“ You have not yet sworn never again tc see me.” 

“ What, must 1 swear ? Now, what silly work is this ! Not but what 
I’ll swear if you insist. What shall I swear by ?— yourself, your uncle, or 
your three hundred louis? Psha, woman! can you really want an oath 
from me ?” 

“You say truly, Urfort. I will ask none; for, if you feel disposed to 
break it, it would be no bond ; and I should, therefore, only be unneces- 
sarily adding another sin to your list, already too long.” 

“Many thanks, mother Confessor,” cried Urfort; “had I time I would 
officiate as father in the same line ; and we would give each other mutual 
absolution. As it is. adieu ! Leave the money beneath the filbert-tree in 
the garden, and do not fear my ever troubling you again.” 


ORPHANS OF UN WALDEN. 


47 


CHAPTER IX. 

Forsake the pleasure to pursue the vice. 

Lord Rochester. 


Nay, but we’ll admit no pause. 

Heywood’s Challenge for Beauty. 

When the Count De Mara returned to his hotel, after his interview with 
Madame Deboos, he again and again conned over the features of his design 
upon Madeline, to be quite sure that the engines which he intended to 
bring to bear upon his scheme were not only proper in themselves, but 
likely to work in a proper way towards the end w’hich he had in view. Ho 
was like some deep-scheming general on the eve of a great battle, that w'as 
expected to make all or to mar all — all its faculties alive— and ali his atten- 
tion applied with the soul of energy to the various points of attack that were 
likely to present themselves. De Mara, who w as a quick and accurate 
diver into the depths of human nature, felt well persuaded that the labour 
he had now entered upon was one that would require all his skill— for what 
Madeline wanted in knowledge of the world, she more than made up in 
rapidity of perception and in soundness of judgment: her mind seemed 
ever to be on the alert, and nothing crossed her without being weighed, 
balanced, and an opinion formed upon its good and evil proportions. The 
count, who during his residence at Geneva, had been in vain on the search 
for a conquest worthy of his arts, was delighted at having at length found 
one whom he deemed every way sufficiently tempting to command his 
pains. The beauty of the maiden, which had first struck his admiring eyes, 
was almost forgotten, or at least had passed considerably to the back- ground, 
as he listened to her silver tones ; and even now, w hen alone, hi's chief 
thoughts w r ere directed tow'ards the mental qualifications which she had 
displayed ; and if he ever reverted to her beauty, it w ; as only for the sake 
of remembering how admirably its character harmonized with her power of 
mind and tone of conversation. 

It w'as in the midst of these considerations that he passed the first hour 
after he arrived at his hotel, and then remembering that it might be as well 
to embrace the opportunity which the time afforded of obtaining a few' hours’ 
rest, he threw himself on his couch in the hope of enjoying so much sleep. 
But his mind was in too active a state to allow the body that repose which 
it required ; for even w r hen he dozed, the disturbed starts which he under- 
went, and the broken sentences W'hich he murmured through the mazes of 
his half- waking dreams, indicated that the veil which Somnus had thrown 
around him was of the frailest texture, with too little of oblivion (sleep’s prime 
ingredient) in it to allow his senses to withdraw from their present “ be all.” 

At length the morning came, and gave him signal to arise. Impetuous, 
eager, and full of urgent blood, he stepped from his couch ; and though he 
could hardly be said to have been restored by the doubtful rest he had pro- 
cured, his spirit was as though his whole frame was in its freshest condition, 
and fatigue and he were little known to one another. He had not, how- 
ever, got rid of the hurry of his manner. Expectation had taken possession 
of his soul ; and he seemed only fit to count the hours, w’hose death promised 
to bring him life. 

There are two sorts of love. One— pure, exquisite, and lovely ; founded 
on affection for a single and invaluable object, and resting its whole hope 
on that object's happiness : the other is single and insidious, built only on 


43 


TRANSFUSION : OR, THE 


self-gratification and the desire of indulging at all hazards an unsharing 
principle. But both the one and the other — the good and the bad— summor 
ardour to their aid ; and, as Sylla to serve himself could be as daring, bold 
and resolute as Regulus to serve his country, so the selfish lover is just a: 
able to be hot in pursuit and eager in attack ; nay, even more so than h< 
who still has tenderness for his beloved to check his transport, and an hones 
doubt of his own worthiness to possess this goddess-supposed to subdue hi* 
passion’s inebriety. 

Altoz and Deboos were with their principal by ten o’clock, and again th< 
whole bearings of the affair were commented on by the count. So anxiou* ! 
did he seem that every possible point should have its consideration, tha 
probably he would have gone on with his instructions till Madeline arrived 
had not Deboos, who dreaded the effects of an eclaircissement with Urfortjl 
reminded him of the money which he had engaged to provide. 

“True, true,” said the count, the greatest general must pay his way till 
he is able to forage on the enemy’s land. And, therefore, I have prepared 
myself for your demand as far as the urgency of the case would permitl 
Here are two hundred and fifty louis, all I happen to have in my escritoire 
\ at this moment, and Altoz must lend me the difference for a day or two, til! I 
I have time to make my letters of credit available.” 

“Lend you the difference !” cried Altoz ; “ hark -ye. count, fifty louis on 
five hundred are heartily at your service ; but it would go against my con-i 
science to advance even five for such a purpose as this.” 

De Mara perceived that the lady was going to reply in no very tender! 
etrain, and he interposed. “Never mind your conscience,” cried he ; “ of 1 
strain it for once to oblige a friend. I pledge you my word to show youj 
reasons anon why the thing is advisable, and even to my profit.” 

“ Well, well, said Altoz; if you put it upon your wisdom, 1 suppose thell 
pupil must yield to his master ; but, for a profitable bargain, it has as Jewish? 
a look, as if the whole were taken up on bond of Israel Solomons at hisi 
risk-rate of interest.” 

Deboos, having obtained the full amount, was in too great a hurry to be 
gone to be able to spare time for any remarks ; and after she was again 
warned by the count to be in attendance at twelve to receive Madeline, she 
was suffered to depart. 

“Now, dear count, in the name of every wisdom at once, I entreat you 
to explain ; for, were the reward of being made grand professor of logic to: 
three German Universities staring me in the face, I could not for the soul > 
of me invent so much as a half sentence to be spoken in favour of paying 
three hundred louis beforehand to this cousin of Lucifer, even before it is 
known whether she will execute three hundred sous of service in the whole 
business.” 

“ I will answer your question,” said tne count, “ m the first instance by 
asking another. Do you remember why last night you advised me to have 
nothing to do with Deboo3 ?” 

“ To be sure I do ; a deep cut is not so easily healed as to prevent the 
smart being felt after the lapse of so short a time.” 

“ Then I may tell you, by way of soothing the smart, that the full force 
of your objection was felt even by me. But there were reasons to Weigh 
against it. The notice at which our newly-made Madame Lalande’s part 
was to be played was so short, that it wa3 absolutely necessary to confide 
it to a woman of talent ; and Deboos was the only one at hand sufficiently 
trustworthy in that respect. Had 1 been in dear Paris, indeed, I mteht ! 
have had the choice of a hundred or two— all of them Debooses, or better. 
But here the spirit of Calvin, when the stiff-backed fellow died, seems to i 
have taken up with the women of the place, and, on its comin°- in out 
went the genius of intrigue.” 


ORPHANS OF UN WALDEN. 


49 


“But still why was Deboos to have three hundred louis fordoing no- 
thing ?” 

“Bless me ! what a quantity of matter-of-fact talking you require before 
your brain can conceive a position ! In the first place, she absolutely re- 
fused to work without cash in advance : in the second place, humouring 
her in this has made her what your groom would call ‘ tender in the mouth,’ 
and turned an animal whom you might well describe to be intractable as a 
mule into something reasonable and manageable: and in the third place — 
I like to come to your thirds, it looks so categorical and argument-like — 
in the third place, this loan puts this wayward woman somewhat in my 
power, and if I can but bring her also to that opinion, the chances are 
that, I shall be able to guide her tolerably safely, till we come to the crisis, 
and there I want none to help me.”- 

“ One — two — three ; finely concluded indeed ! It w T as worth the fifty 
louis to hear the general explain his motives.” 

“ Shall we cry quits then ?” said the count, with a laugh ,• “ they will 
go nigh to help me through my losings to Maravelli yesterday.” 

“ That was not so well concluded, speaking quoad myself ; and the foot- 
ing you put it upon makes it still worse, for it reminds me that to suit your 
purpose I lost a supper — a loss not to be held lightly, when accompanied 
with the presidency of the fiftieth queen of the constant Count de Mara’s 
heart.” 

“ The fiftieth she may be — but at all events the dearest.” 

“ Of course,” replied the chevalier, drily — “ because the last. 1 never 
could understand, count, what made you such a desperado at the Change.” 

“ My mother, dear Altoz — simply, my mother. She taught me early in 
life to make her my confidante. As long as my secrets went no further 
than a truant holiday or a school-time robbery, the system worked well 
enough : 1 gave her my confidence, which she returned with her protection, 
and we both thought ourselves gainers ; but when young master sprang up 
towards manhood, the case wore its complexion ‘with a difference.’ It 
I was some time before I found out the change, and that meanwhile was suf- 
i ficient to fix my feelings as to women. The first of those dear decoyers of 
man’s idle hours that I fell in love with was a pretty brunette, whose mo- 
ther was in the habit of visiting at our chateau. As soon as I had ascer- 
tained the fact myself, my mother had the full particulars from me. ‘ My 
dear boy,’ quoth she, ‘you must avoid her. To love, in the abstract, 
I have no objection, but to Mademoiselle Mignelle there are insuper- 
able objections : she has no temper, and her thoughts are all on a pigmy 
scale.’ Either, at that time, I was the most obedient of sons, or my 
mother’s manner had extraordinary influence over me, for Mademoiselle 
Mignelle la Brunette was given up, and I lost my heart three days after- 
wards to a blonde. But here there was another insuperable objection again 
on the mother’s side ; and so it would have probably been ad infinitum, for 
as fast as I fell in love, my mother conjured errors ‘from the vasty 
deep.’ ” 

“ But still this must have been soon at an end,” said Altoz, “ for I have 
always heard you say that you lost your mother before you had reached 
manhood.” 

“That is true; she died just as I was falling in love for the thirteenth 
time. But young minds both easily and forcibly receive impressions ; and 
mine was indelibly stamped with the imperfect) bility of women. My mo - 
ther — a wise woman by the way — w'ith all her zeal for the sex, found more 
faults than virtues in each, as they passed in survey across my mirror of 
love ; and the consequence was, a young but earnest resolution on my part 
to handle the sex as wise men handle straws;— used lightly, and with a 
judicious hand, they tickle and are pleasing ; but thrust them incautiously 


50 


TRANSFUSION I OK, THE 


into the eye or ear— give them a place within, and they irritate instead ot 
tickling — they inflict pain, instead of pleasure.” 

The conversation was here interrupted by the re-entry of Deboos, who, 
true to her appointment, made her appearance as the clock struck twelve, 
with her dress somewhat altered ,' or, to use her own expression, “her ex- 
ternal style subdued so as best to soothe the daughter of Madame La- 
lande’s friend.” 

The count walked round her in the same disposition of mind in which 
Sir Giles Overreach surveyed his daughter ; and as Margaret’s gow'n did 
not affect the usurious knight, so De Mara fell out w’ith the cap of his fe- 
male coadjutor. 

“Ye gods, what a cap, Deboos 1” cried he; “is it borrowed from the 
model of the ancient Persian fire-worshippers, or a modern Spanish auto- 
da-ft. Is this what you mean by ‘ subdued V On the faith of a gentle- 
man, 1 never saw the same idea similarly expressed.” 

“ Count de Mara,” said the lady, somewhat offended, “I beg that the 
judgment of my own affairs may be left to myself. Surely you have no- 
thing to do with my particular head-dress.” 

“ There you are mistaken,” replied the other ; “ it is part and parcel of 
our treaty of alliance that all matters were to be in accordance for the 
peaceable reception of Madeline.” 

“True,” cried Altoz; “ and I am sure there can be little hope of peace 
under such inflammatory colours. No garrison would dream of surrender- 
ing at discretion while they were exhibited.” 

“Well sung in concert, Mr. Duplicate,” exclaimed Deboos, in a con- 
temptuous tone ; — “ thou poor copy of no very wonderful original, be wise 
and leave the matter to your master, for your interference does but mar the 
little that is to be said in his behalf.” 

“ But, in sober earnest, Deboos,” said the count, “ the cap must be altered. 
Our expected visiter apprehends, from all that she has heard of Madame 
Lalande, that she is as staid and puritanical in her every thing as a devotee 
in the last stage of self-contradiction.” 

“Is this generous, Count De Mara— is it just? But l understand the 
meaning of the scene: you think that because my w'ants have put me in 
your power, you may venture this paltry jeu d* esprit to tickle the chevalier’s j 
silliness, and thus bribe his vanity as you have my poverty.” 

“Absurd — absurd!” replied the count ; “ but this is ever the way with 
you very clever women ; you are so deep, so profound, so searching, that; 
if a reason lies too near the surface, it is sure to be overlooked for the pur- 
pose of fishing up from the depths some fine-draw r n motive, that is generally I 
no motive at all. The simple fact is, that the cap is too gay for the taste 
of a Swiss village girl ; and those who are prudent will consider all things] 
when they have a point at heart to carry.” 

“Well, count,” said the lady, “ I do not wish to commence this under- ' 
taking in ill blood, and 1 will therefore yield the point. But I beg that it 
may be understood that in future my part of the task is to be left entirely 
io my own control. F rench counts, of course, may be very clever, but it is i 
woman’s privilege to read women ; and, if my services are to be employed, 
it must be on the condition that I am to judge for myself.” And with this 
she withdrew to make the necessary change in her dress, on the under- 
standing that she w’as to meet the two gentlemen as soon as possible at the 
Coq iTOr , w'hither they were to proceed in expectation of Madeline’s arrival. 

On their road thither Altoz thought that there was enough of triumph on 
his side to justify his referring to the ridiculous ebullition that had just taken 

{ dace, and he therefore opened the attack by observing — “ Three hundred 
ouis most wisely spent! Now r a common lover, such as I, might have 
deemed it more judicious to expend the gold in some pretty bauble for the 


ORPHANS OF UN WALDEN. 


01 


admired ; but live and learn — live and learn ; and I must indeed be under 
the- tuition of a superior tactician, when I cannot even understand his very 
first ruse,' 1 

"What!” cried De Mara, “rebelling again so soon ! Have a care, or 
my young volunteer will be cashiered at least — to say nothing of a court- 
martial.” 

“ I have heard that that is a favourite move of some generals, when they 
find their subalterns more deep-sighted than themselves.” 

“ Why, what a piece of impatience art thou ! How durst thou pass thy- 
self off to me as a sober Spaniard, when double-heated Welch blood shows 
itself in every second movement of your actions. Answer me this, thou 
modern Fluellen 1 did you ever hear Deboos so moderate before in her de- 
clamations?” . 

“ Oh, tut, tut,” cried the chevalier, “ that pass wont serve. You foretold 
entire submission throughout ; and now before three hours have elapsed, 
content yourself with something Deboos would call ‘subdued, &c. - ' ” 

“ 1 content myself, because 1 have obtained all I expected. When a 
conqueror proposes to Christianize a nation of savages, he does not expect 
to make Popes, or Luthers, or Calvins of them all. All these things are 
to be taken relatively, and in reference. to what, their former state was. Do 
you suppose for a moment, that if Deboos had not had my three hundred 
touis — ” 

“I beg your pardon,” interrupted the chevalier with a shrug, “your two 
hundred and fifty louisl” 

“Well, well, as you please,” continued the other; “hut if the money 
had not been paid to her, and she in bond, do you think any argument in 
the world would have persuaded her to change that cap, which looked as 
if it had been dipped in Phlegethon, and set a-blaze by Phaeton?” 

•“All which plainly goes to show' that you have made a dangerous bar- 
gain. Rely on it, she will play you some knave’s trick before your game 
is over — perhaps even overturn the whole machine!” 

“ Thank you, thank you, Sir Raven of the Croaking Throat!” cried the 
count, “ but trust me, 1 shall have a quick eye upon her, with a hand pre- 
pared to minister against all such evil.” 

And with this they found themselves arrived at the Coq iTOr. The 
count’s servant had been sent early in the morning to bespeak apartments 
(or the expected strangers, and therefore De Mara, after easting an eye over 
the appointed apartments, had nothing to do but to sit down and wait qui- 
etly till his intended victim should arrive. 

The nobleman and his party did not arrive at the Coq d'Or till past the 
time at which Madeline w as expected. The count, however, was too old 
a traveller not to know' that postillions will be unpunctual, ladies unready, 
and post-horses unwilling ; and he therefore was not much surprised at art 
hour or two slipping away without his expected visiters making their ap- 
pearance : but in proportion as still further time passed on with the same 
lack of profit, his impatience grew to a head; and when he found four 
o’clcck— five o’clock— six o'clock— arrive, without producing Madeline and 
her brother, the irritation of his mind became perceptible in his manner, 
though (he cause remained unconfessed. The conversation, in which he 
forced himself to join, lost its interest, and more and more frequently, as 
the hour advanced, it became broken and unattended to: his watch was 
continually in his hand, and he seemed at those moments to devote the 
whole powers of his mind to the movement of the hands of the machine, 
as though by the mere act of intense watching he would convert each 
minute into an hour, and, by keeping up a constant observation on the mo- 
tions of the enemy, prevent the rapidity of his flight. When not thus em- 
ployed, and as his uneasiness grew upon him, he w'ould start fiom his scat, 


52 


transfusion: or, the 


and tramp the floor at a rate almost swift enough to induce the belief that 
he was giving an example of the force at which he would have Madeline 
travel: hurried exclamations, in themselves nothing, but highly indicative 
of the sensations that were predominant in his mind, broke from him invol- 
untarily ; and ever as he paced the room, he would make a sudden halt 
before the window, and cast a longing eye at the road by which his expected 
was to arrive. But the sound of a carriage almost shook him with expec- 
tation, and his whole frame assumed an attitude of intense attention to the 
interruption. Each carriage was the one for which he looked : each, as it 
approached, was expected to stop at the gate ; and if but the look of the 
driver was directed towards the hotel, the count’s pulse bounded in strange 
and anxious vibration, till the horses’ heads got beyond the entrance ; 
and then all went back again with a rapid, painful, and sickening re- 
action. 

[t is the prerogative, or rather the curse, of those wno are the creatures 
of passion, and depend upon impulse for their direction, to be governed by 
the suddenness of their feelings ; and in proportion as their energies have 
been worked up to a particular expectation, do they feel the magnitude of 
the impression. It matters not whether the object is a world or an atom : 
having begun upon it, whatever it may be, the passion feeds itself, and 
from its own power of nourishment becomes gigantic : — heart, blood, mind 
and soul seem all involved in the general rush, and, like the frog in tht 
fable, they swell and distend beyond the powers of endurance. The 
slightest check is felt, as if it were the imposition of some huge mountain ; 
and the disappointment of no more than a little minute comes ramping and 
raging on the perturbed and overstretched spirit with a sensation that 
beats back the previous uprising to a degree as insupportable as it is irre- 
sistible. 

It was thus that De Mara was moved ; and in proportion as his sensa- 
tions grew stronger and stronger, the more visible they became to his com- 
panions. At length they reached a height that became quite alarming. 
He seemed to have no control over himself. He could not bear to rest for 
a moment — but, without ceasing, stalked up and down the room, changing 
his pace as the picture graven on the camera obscura of his mind changed. 
It wa3 the reign of passion — the anarchy of reason ! 

“ What shall we do with him ?” whispered Altoz to Deboos, for this was 
a situation in which the unadmitted confession of his mind impelled him to 
apply to the stronger judgment. 

“ He must be made to talk,” answered Deboos in the same low tone ; 
“ words to men are what tears are to women ; bring it to that, and you 
have opened one of Nature’s own sluices, by which she intends these hot- 
headed spirits to be cooled.” 

“ Make him talk !” cried the chevalier ; “ that is easily said ; but an hour 
ago I exhausted all my talking subjects, and he may think it somewhat 
dull and prosy to go the same matter over again.” 

“ That was profoundly spoken,” said the female, with a sneer : “ would 
to Heaven you always knew how to appreciate your own powers with 
equal justice ! For once take a lesson from me ; and, instead of prating to 
him on subjects which must be as so many blanks to him in his pres'ent 
state of mind, attack him on the one single point that wraps him.” 

“To my mind,” replied the chevalier with a shake of his head, “ that will 
be only throwing oil to the flames.” 

“ Add to my prescription a style that shall alarm his self-love and vanity, 
and you will see that the medicine will work to its true intent.” 

“ Excuse me,” replied Altoz, “ as you undertake the office of physician, 
I think that it rests with you to administer your own recipe.” 

“With all my heart,” cried Deboos, “Pray,” added she, raising her 


ORFHAJTS OF UNWALDEN. 


58 


voice bo as to attract the count’s attention : — “ pray, can you tell me how l 
may meet with the Count De Mara ?” 

The count desisted from his rapid traverse of the room, and stood before 
her. “Madam,” said he, hardly knowing at what she was aiming, but 
determined to outvie the calm dignity of her manner ; — “ Madam, the Count 
de Mara has the honour of standing before you !” 

“ You, the count ?” cried Deboos, with an affected start of surprise : — 
“ Oh, impossible ! I have even heard that the Count de Mara prided him- 
self on the coolness of his judgment and the imperturbability of his- man- 
ner. Besides, I know from pretty good authority, that he is in expectation 
of meeting a chit in whom he pretends to be deeply interested. Sir, if you 
were the count, under such circumstances, you would be as sober as an 
Arcadian, and as much under the commnnd of self as a grenadier is of his 
officer.” 

“The hint is well thrown in, Deboos,” said the count ; “and lam obliged 
accordingly ; but it appears to me that I am in perfect order.” 

“ Rather say in most admired disorder,” cried the other: “ half a dozen 
hours ago you were preaching to us the necessity of having all our wits 
about us, as your Madeline was a bird not to be netted by unwary fow- 
lers.” 

“ And I still hold to the same,” said De Mara : “ who says to the con- 
trary ?” 

“ The Count de Mara himself! The essence of unwariness is produced 
by want of self-command.” 

“ Ah,” cried the count, as if in consciousness of the justice of her cen- 
sure ; and then recovering himself, “ but who wants self-command ? — as 
for me I am as steady as a ten-year-old pilot.” 

“ And yet he were a rash man who, having seen your last hour’s course, 
would insure you from either shoals or breakers.” 

“ Indeed !” cried the count, his self-love somewhat nettled “why, here 
is the chevalier who would do it for a farthing.” 

“Not I, in good sooth !” cried Altoz : “ after this day’s experience I in- 
tend always to be wise, and never to be rash.” 

“ A most important vow,” said Deboos ; “ I pray Heaven grant you 
strength to keep it for a day.” 

“ Hark !” cried the count ; “ I hear a chaise. Yes — yes ! — Now, a thou- 
sand curses light upon it — it stops not here. By Heaven, I am in that 
mind that I would have every villain guillotined that dares drive a chaise 
down the street till my one, which I almost think will never come, arrives.” 

“ Coolness personified !” ejaculated the chevalier. 

« Patience is the highest perfection,” responded Deboos. 

“ In humble parody of ^sop’s fox,” cried the count, “ I may exclaim— 
what pity ’tis, that two such welFshaped heads should hold so little brains ! 
Of what is it you are complaining ? That being in love, I am out of pa- 
tience. Well, where is the wonder? What the marvel ?” 

“Both wonder and marvel enough, I think,” said Deboos, “when tne 
philosophical De Mara Bhows such symptoms.” 

“ Wrong again,” exclaimed the count ; “it is because I am philosophical 
that I act thus? Think you that there is no such thing as the philosophy 


of love?” . 

“ Most assuredly there is, and has been ever since the days ot i^ato. 
“And in what does the philosophy of love consist ?” continued DeMara. 
« Of what but impatient anxiety, fierce desire, uncontrollable palpitation . 
Even as the philosophy of science is abstruse, the philosophy of modesty 
demure, and the philosophy of gambling calculating, so the phuosop y o 
love is ardent and overwhelming.” » f 

“ Mere periods and phrases 1” answered the lady ; ‘ the philosophy ot 


5 * 


54 


transfusion: or, the 


every thing is that which enables the possessor to survey accurately, ant 
comprehend justly the nature of the subject.” 

“A thousand thanks, Deboos!— you have pronounced my argument ttta 
heir. One such speech from the chevalier, and 1 shall have to congratula® 
myself on having enrolled you both on my side of the question.” 

“ I shall say nothing,” cried the chevalier ; “ but I follow the maxi . 
doled out to me when I was at school— Hear, see, and say nothing.” 

“ Then hear this, my friend,” said the count, “ and place it in the wist 
corner of your mind. Deboos tells us that to taste the philosophy ofam; 
ter, we must comprehend it justly. Now let me be told this ! — How a 
we to comprehend the depths of a forest by keeping ever on its skirts ? \ 

or the fastnesses of a castle by walking round the moat ? * Forward ! f( 

ward !’ must be our motto : — we must force ourselves through the brus 
wood in the one case, or wind through the cunning labyrinth that t 
architect has built in honour of his skill in the other, before we can hope 
know where to have and where to hold. And why not so with love ? W! i 
are we not to plunge into all its wondrous twists and mazes of passion, 
we want to apprehend its real mystery ? — Bah ! the man or woman eith< 
that merely stands trembling on the brink, as the fearful school-boy shiv< 
on the edge of the brook without courage to plunge his limbs into the doul j 
ful depths, may talk of love— mince pretty amorous phrases tipped w 
shallow tinsel — but never can he dive into the recesses of Love's abode, a 
drag the son of Venus into the light of day.” 

“ The man certainly talks,” cried Deboos, “ as if he had heard of Ic j 
before. But, if 1 may be allowed to put a question to so acute a genius 
would ask, whether there is not some danger of a person who plunges ii 
these depths forgetting his philosophy, and remembering nothing but 1 j 
excess of his passion ?” 

“ That must depend on the time he allows himself to be involved. TL 
true philosopher of love will take care to limit himself, so that his bark 
reason is in no danger of being swamped in his stream of passion.” 

“ That is too general an answer,” cried Deboos. “ Take your own c 
for example, and tell us how long you may without danger be left in ._1 
practice of furious strides, eager gazing up and down the street, bitter ejaj^ 
ulations, elevating of hands, and deep-fetched imprecations.” * 

“That must be according to circumstances,” replied the count, “and 
depend chiefly on the chain that introduces the next and the next up to the 
very climax. For instance — hark ! surely I hear the wheels of a carriage — 
and yet — in my own case, good Deboos — yes ! it is a chaise : it approaches 
— the proper time for throwing aside the strange list of incoherencies you 
have mentioned— Can it be? — the chaise stops here! — Gods, it is my 
Madeline! — Yes, Deboos ; the proper time for forgetting incoherencies, 
and again resuming the reins of discretion, is now, my friends, now !” — 
and with this he rushed down stairs, to be in time to hand Madeline from 
the chaise. 


ORPHANS OP UNWALDEN. 


55 


CHAPTER X. 

We must have these hues when we hawk for friends, 

And wind about them like a subtle river, 

That, seeming to run only on his course, 

Doth search yet as he runs, and still finds out 
The easiest parts of entry on the shore, 

Gliding so slilyby, as scarce it touch’d, 

Yet still eats something in it. — Chapman. 

The reason of Madeline’s delav might have easily been explained, had 
she chosen it ; but, in reply to such inquiries as the count thought he might 
venture to make, her answers were such as to leave him somewhat in the 
dark. On the whole, however, what he gathered led him to the conclusion 
(which, indeed, was a just one) that Albert had been the cause of the post- 
ponement of their arrival. 

It was not till the morning after the count had quitted the inn, where he first 
met the orphans of Unwalden, that Madeline had an opportunity of gath- 
ering Albert’s impressions as to their new found acquaintance. To her great 
surprise, she found that the youth was in alarm at the count’s freedom of 
manners — that he had viewed with apprehension his intrusion into their 
apartment — and that he became acquainted with the arrangement his sister 
had made for meeting the count at Geneva with proportionate dislike. 
Why was it that Albert had imbibed these feelings? He himself hardly 
knew— or rather could not, from the novelty of the sensation, define that it 
arose from the overbearing contrast which the count’s manners, as a man 
of the world, full of Nature’s and Fortune’s good graces, formed with his 
own gentleness of temper and retiringness of disposition. Much passed 
between the brother and sister on the subject ; and more than once Made- 
line was on the point of yielding to the feelings of her companion, though, 
in that event, a return to Unwalden, instead of an advance to Geneva, must 
have been the consequence. 

It was this last position that, in the end, turned the scale; for, when 
Albert understood that through the count they were to discover Madame 
Lalande, and when he remembered that through Madame Lalande was 
their only hope of discovering Seaton, he felt that his dislike for De Mara 
was but as a feather in the balance ; and entreating his sister to forget 
what he had said in detriment of their new friend, he insisted on proceeding 
to Geneva. 

But though Madeline took care to give none of these circumstances to 
De Mara on his arrival, she let enough drop in her mauvaise honte excuses 
to lead him to suspect that the cause of the delay had, in some way or 
another, arisen from Albert. The hatreds of the count were as soon 
bestowed as his affections — as strong and as resolute ; and no sooner did 
he conceive that he had for one moment been thwarted through the instru- 
mentality of Albert, than he transferred to him a dislike as determined as 
was the passion which inflamed his heart for Madeline. Nor did it appear 
likely that this new feeling, on the part of the count, would be lessened by 
the conduct of Albert : who, though careful not to evince the apprehensions 
he entertained of the nobleman, could not help, in his want of all know- 
ledge of the savoir vivre , showing in his behaviour a timidity and hesitation 
which were not calculated to allay the suspicions which De Mara had 
begun to entertain. 

The feelings which Albert had thus imbibed with respect to the count 


56 


TRANSFUSION : OR, THE 


were not of a nature to give ease to Madeline in her prosecution of the 
task she had undertaken ; and if her journey from Unwalden to the inn 
where she first met De Mara tasted of unpleasantness and discomfort, still 
more bitter was that which conducted her from her night’s lodging to 
Geneva. 

What a strange contrast between her journey and that of the count ! 
He, in the midst of night, with the heavy shade of indiscernible crags 
overhanging him, had galloped along, light of heart — hot-blooded and 
eager in the furtherance of his desire— and that desire most sensual, selfish, 
and unholy. Madeline, on the other hand, had the blithe sun to guide her 
on the way ; while the precipices, that in night’s darkness were the parents 
of terror and dismay, had, by the light of day, softened into the originators 
of wonder and admiration ; and yet, with these differences in her favour, 
her course was heavy and grievous. Was it then that her desire was still 
more selfish and unholy than that of the count ? — Oh, how contrary was it 
to every thing either selfish or unholy ! Love for Albert — love for Seaton 
— sorrow for her fault — anxiety to amend it — were the sole occupants of 
her heart ; and though she travelled with the commission of an error 
weighing heavily upon her soul, how venial — how trifling — how less than 
nothing would it appear when set against that which was in the imagina- 
tion of De Mara, and which to him was his pride, his glory, and his 
triumph! Compare De Mara’s self-willed and determined prosecution of 
his greedy passion with the poor maiden’s oft-repented fault, and the one 

— Almost as infinite as all, 

The other blank as nothing. 

y 

And yet Madeline was the child of sorrow— De Mara the guest of joy ; a 
true but painful illustration that happiness is not always within virtue’s 
command, and that conscience — the hackney and the bug-bear — may as 
easily be a slave as a tyrant. 

But it is full time to return to the thread of our narrative. 

The first interview between Deboos and Madeline passed off entirely to 
the count’s satisfaction ; and though he watched each motion of the former, 
to see whether she committed herself; and of the latter, to ascertain 
whether she suspected any thing, he could not help, when all was done, 
confessing that the whole scene had been performed by the counterfeit 
Lalande in a most masterly manner. 

The consequences of this success were what De Mara had foreseen. 
Madeline, full of respect and growing affection for a woman who had been 
the friend, the confidante, and the adviser of her mother, showed herself 
ready to adopt her suggestions on all points ; and the influence of the 
count was thus made sure as far as opportunity and agency could effect. 
He had too good an opinion of his talents for intrigue to doubt for a 
moment that the rest must follow in the course that he should be pleased 
to mark out.. 

The only thing that harassed his prospects was the increasing anxiety 
which Madeline still displayed to discover the retreat of Seaton. °lt was in 
vain that the fictitious Madame Lalande assured her that in the end it 
must happen that the old man would relent and re-appear, and that hev 
mother’s former friend must be the certain channel through which he 
would signify that alteration ; still Madeline was unable to overcome the 
self-reproach that haunted her. Any unusual sound in the house made 
her start from her seat as if in expectation of its being the announcer of 
the return of the lost one; and the door could not open'without her quick 
eye being eagerly raised to ascertain whether he who entered was the 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


57 


But if this anxiety to discover Seaton had been the sum of the case, the 
count’s uneasiness would have been materially lessened, for he fairly in- 
ferred that, as long as Deboos was to Madeline the real Lalande, the lapse 
of time must soften her regrets on account of Seaton. His greatest appre- 
hension, however, was that Seaton might be really lingering in Geneva, 
or the neighbourhood of Unwalden : and in a moment of returning softness 
seek out the children of his adoption. If, therefore, on the approach of 
some unwonted sound, or the unexpected opening of the door Madeline’s 
gaze was one of life and expectation, no less was that of the count one of 
dread and nervous anticipation. 

De Mara, however, was not a man to remain idle in expectation of an 
evil. The enervating sensation that arises from an ill-omened anticipa- 
tion was speedily shaken off by him, and he set himself earnestly to work, 
to devise the best means to controvert the mischief which appeared to 
threaten, and to intercept the approach of Seaton, should that elder, in a 
relenting moment, seek Madeline and her brother. It was not long that 
De Mara wavered as to the course he should adopt : he determined to in- 
vade what might be called the head-quarters of the enemy at once, and 
thus ascertain the best and the worst of the accident that he anticipated. 
With this view he set his emissaries to work to discover the abode of the 
real Madame Lalande, that means might be adopted to obtain from her the 
secret (if she had it) of Seaton’s retreat. 

This was not a task of any great difficulty. Her residence was dis- 
covered, and the most careful and secret inquiry was instituted for the 
purpose of ascertaining whether within the last few days any stranger, 
whose description would tally with that of Seaton, had been observed as a 
visiter to the house. Every information that could be procured on this head 
seemed to negative the idea that Seaton had chosen — personally at least — 
to make Madame Lalande his confidante. But the count still remained 
unsatisfied as to the general result : it might be possible that his agents were 
mistaken in the intelligence which they had brought him ; and, still further, 
it was even probable, that though Seaton might not have chosen to seek a 
personal interview with the lady, a letter from him might have already 
informed her of the course he had adopted, and set her on the qui vive as to 
the movements of the orphans. 

With these reflections pressing upon him, the count resolved upon an 
inquiry of Madame Lalande herself, as the only conclusive means by which 
he could securely ascertain what there was to hope or fear. But the dif- 
ficulty here was to find one competent to undertake the task. For himself, 
h$ did not choose to appear so p.alpably in the business, as, in the event of 
a discovery taking place, it would so implicate him with the deception prac- 
tised on Madeline, as entirely to shut the door of reconciliation against him. 
Deboos also appeared to him a dangerous instrument to employ on this 
occasion, as it was obviously his cue to keep the two Lalandes as far asun- 
der as possible. With these two exceptions he could fix his mind on none 
of whose ability to undertake the office he was sufficiently assured. The 
more he considered the undertaking, the greater were the difficulties that 
presented themselves to his mind ; and the danger, supposing that Madame 
Lalande as yet knew nothing of what had been doing at Unwalden, of 
rousing her mind to suspicion and inquiry, increased every moment that he 
had the matter under his consideration. 

In this dilemma he applied to Deboos, though not without some fear that 
she would consider herself so all-competent to the undertaking, as to hear 
of none other for the office. In this, however, he was mistaken : either 
Deboos was convinced by the reasons which the count gave for her non- 
appearance as far as Madame Lalande was concerned, or she had no in- 
clination to undertake this extra labour. The count, however, obtained 


TRANSFUSION : OR, T1IE 


5S 

her advice on the affair, which, bad or good, amounted to this — that Dc 
Mara’s plan, as far as it went, should be followed, but that in the event of 
its proving unsuccessful in procuring the required information, steps should 
be taken to remove Madame Lalande from Geneva. 

But still the same difficulty presented itself— a fit and proper person to 
perform the sinuous office that was to lead to these, conclusions. 

“ I wonder,” said Deboos with a sneer, when De Mara reiterated the 
difficulty which this point presented — “ I wonder that you have not selected 
your favourite Altoz for the task.” 

“ Altoz !” cried the count ; “ I would as soon appoint that deaf non- 
entity, Madeline’s brother ; for where the one would be deaf, thp other 
would be dumb — and both in the very vitals of the question.” 

“ And yet you thought the chevalier worthy of being your aid-de-camp 
in the very outset of the adventure.” 

“ It was circumstances, and not I,” cried tne count, “ that elected him to 
that post of honour: — besides, 1 was in hopes, that under your tuition 
something might be made of him ; but he appears to grow more obtuse 
than ever. You are the two ends of the needle, and the more exactly you 
point to' the pole, the further is he from it.” 

“ Oh, your servant,” replied the lady with a curtsey, “ 1 see that I must 
do something to repay so much concession in my favour ; and yet 1 know 
no one to whom in candour I dare recommend your commission.” 

“ Candour ! I am content that you should use the word. But will you 
let it hold good for the next five minutes ?” 

Deboos gave the questioner a scrutinising glance, as if to ask his mean- 
ing ; and then drily replied, “ certainly, count.” 

“Then read this billet, and give me a judgment upon it.” 

Deboos took the paper which the count tendered her ; but no sooner did 
she cast her eye on the handwriting, than an involuntarily shudder came 
over her. After an effort she read the following as its contents — 

“ Count De Mara — Deboos is not unwise — but there is one still more 
canny at her elbow. Your last three hundred louis were handsomely 
palatable. Perhaps the management of Lalande would be worth another 
hundred ?” 

“ Villain !” muttered Deboos. 

“ Many thanks for the compliment,” cried De Mara, somewhat bluntly. 

“ Nay, count, the epithet was not applied to you. I will not pretend to 
deny that I know the handwriting of the letter ; but beware how you en- 
gage with its author.” 

“ Your caution is just, if I may judge by the price he asks. Besides, I 
always look with an eye of suspicion on your anonymous correspondents. 
A man that is ashamed to sign his name at the bottom of a letter, cannot, 
even in his own opinion, be superlatively trustworthy. But these three 
hundred louis— I confess I should like your explanation of that.” 

Deboos paused for a minute, as if revolving matters within her own 
mind, and then, with a fixed eye and compressed lips, as though she was 
forcing herself to do something against her whole soul’s inclination, she 
said, “ Count, on two conditions I will undertake that Madame Lalande 
shall be both sifted as to her knowledge of Seaton, and removed from Ge- 
neva for awhile.” 

“ Are the conditions reasonable ?” 

“ It is for you to answer that ; but at all events they are the only ones 
on which I can undertake the task.” 

“ At least, then, what are they ?” 

“ First, that you demand no explanation of my agent or my means ; 
and secondly, that the hundred louis mentioned in this scrawl be paid to 
me.” 


59 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 

De Mara demurred for awhile to these terms ; but at length finding that 
the proposer was inexorable, and reflecting on the apparent importance of 
the points she promised to effect, he agreed to both conditions, after obtain- 
ing from her a pledge that she herself was to have no personal interference 
with Madame Lalande. 

It is not necessary to detail the means by which Madame Lalande was 
attacked ; it is sufficient to state that in both points Deboos kept her 
word. It was fully ascertained that Seaton’s motions as yet were un- 
known to Madame Lalande, for she was not even aware that he had 
quilted Un walden ; and in two days from the period of the conversation 
just detailed she was on her way to Genoa. 

But the motive that induced Deboos to undertake the task was curious. 
The letter, which the count had put into her hand, she at once perceived 
to be in a handwriting familiar to her, as she had already admitted to De 
Mara. It was the handwriting of Urfort; and though she could not very 
well comprehend how he had dived to the bottom of the count’s intentions 
towards Madame Lalande, she knew enough of the man to be sure that, 
once having proceeded so far as to write to her employer on the subject, 
no argument would be sufficient to stay his future movements towards in- 
ducing the count to employ him, unless indeed his keeping from his pre- 
sence could be made equally profitable to him. 

To Deboos it wa3 all-important that such an interview should never 
take place, and she was determined to resist it at any sacrifice. It was 
for this reason that she volunteered to find any agent suited to the pur- 
poses of the count, on condition that the hundred louis mentioned in the 
letter should be hers ; and as soon as De Mara had signified his assent, 
she hastened to find Urfort, lest his known impatience of character should 
have already induced him to take further steps towards meeting the noble- 
man. 

“Urfort,” said she, as soon as she had discovered his retreat, “I will 
not reproach you with breach of all faith, and violation of all principle, 
for I know you to be a man who laughs at the one and despises the 
other.” 

“A well-turned sentence!” cried the man ; “ may I ask then, why I 
have been sought out in this, my sanctum of jollity ?” 

“You have written to the Count de Mara.” 

“ Humph !’* 

“And I bring you his answer.” 

“Good, my Deboos; now I respect you again. But the terms— tho 
terms ?” 

« I cannot tell you them till I know from you how much of this affair 
you are acquainted with.” 

“ Why, I should expect about as much as you know yourself. The 
count has a good audible voice, and if you will talk secrets with one man 
while another lies concealed in your house, you should not be surprised 
that the walls blab a little.” 

“ Bur you were concealed in the out-house on the night that De Mara 
and the chevalier came to my abode on horseback.” 

“ Not entirely : though no woman, I do not profess to be altogether free 
from curiosity ; and, as a knock at the door of a peaceable house two' 
hours after midnight had something alarming in it, I took the liberty of 
shifting my quarters from the out-house to that snug little back-parlour of 
yours, where I heard enough to give me an insight into affairs.” 

« Villain !” muttered Dcboos — “but then you know not what has taken 
place since.” 

“ I cannot exactly say that, either ; for, not knowing what better to do 
with my time, I followed up the story. Seaton is a nincompoop — Made- 


60 transfusion: or, the 

line a pretty creature — and the count a fine gentleman. Now, may I know 
the terms of his reply ?” 

“ They are these. Discover what knowledge Lalande has of Seaton, 
and send her on a wild-goose chase for a month, and the count engages 
to pay you the hundred louis that your letter so unconscionably demands ; 
though, what you can want with them, after having so lately had three 
hundred, I cannot conceive.” 

“Oh, the roulette-table can answer that question better than I. But 
are there any other conditions ?” 

“ Only that I am in all cases to be the go-between in your communica- 
tions with the count. He would not in any way personally appear in the 
matter.” 

“ With all my heart. Though, if the gentleman is so very nice as to his 
company, how came you to be of the party ?” 

The only answer that Deboos gave to this insulting question was a 
look of supreme contempt. 

“Well,” continued Urfort, “ at least you can look like a duchess, and 
that is half the battle. However, au revoir. Two days hence, at this hour 
expect me at your own house— crowned with success, and sec that the 
hundred louis be ready. 

At the expiration of the two days, Urfort punctually kept his appoint- 
ment with Deboos— convinced her of his success — received his hundred 
louis — again solemnly promised to quit Geneva, and took his departure. 

As soon as the count was assured that the real Madame Lalande was 
sufficiently removed from the scene of action to be no longer dangerous to 
his schemes, he continued the prosecution of his design upon Madeline 
with redoubled ardour. 

The superadded information that Seaton had not yet corresponded with 
Madame Lalande also greatly contributed to his satisfaction, for it bore 
tacit testimony of the senior still being in the same state of offended feel- 
ing that possessed his mind, when he penned his farewell letter to the now 
friendless wanderers of Unwalden. 

Hitherto De Mara had not dared to introduce Madeline to the amuse- 
ments which the place afforded, lest by some unlucky mischance they 
should light upon the friend of her mother, and the idaircissement so 
dreaded by him should take place : but now that this stumbling-block was 
removed, he felt that he could not adopt a better course than promote that 
gaiety, vivacity, and elasticity of mind, which were so peculiarly the 
characteristics of the disposition of his mistress. The physicians of the 
human body ever recommend their patients to vary the scene, and the air, 
and the thoughts — well knowing that such a variety will mainly contri- 
bute to an eradication of that diseased state which they have been called in 
to cure. In like manner De Mara felt that in the first instance he must 
act as physician to Madeline’s mind, and he knew no better way to 

Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, 

Raze out the written troubles of the brain, 

than by affording her those amusing excitements which should act as 
“ some sweet oblivious antidote.” 

To a great extent his plan was successful. Educated in a Swiss village, 
Madeline’s mind had been narrowed in its external opportunities, whiTe 
within, it was ready every moment to leap from its boundaries and climb 
the mountain-chain of its own creation. Driven by the sameness of each 
day’s circle to feed upon itself, her fancy, which could not bear to be inert 
had grown eccentric and out of human fashion. It had formed its own 
theories, solved its own doubts, painted its own pictures, raised its own 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


61 


castles, and blazoned its own track with wondrous facility, but with that 
natural error of judgment which attends our first efforts, immatured by the 
i philosophy of ages, or the experience of a present world. Madeline might 
j nave exclaimed, with infinitely more justice than the hymnist — 

My mind to me a kingdom is ; 

i for it was her only free land of poetry and imagination, and therefore all in all 
| her kingdom to the very letter of the word. All her ideas being trained in this 
school, she was necessarily led to make every new fact and thought that 
| crossed her path of knowledge subservient to this system. If, indeed, the 
whole wisdom of a Bacon, an Aristotle, or a Shaftesbury, could have burst 
i upon her at once, it might have redeemed her from the gulf of fiction in 
I which she was immersed. But the little knowledge that she gained came 
to her piece-meal : it was extracted in the course of desultory conversation 
or incidental observation, and reached her mind in such small and de- 
| tached particles, that she had time to fashion one fragment to the estab- 
lished coinage of her brain before another presented itself for consideration. 

This being the state of her mind, it need be no matter of surprise that 
the proceeding of De Mara, in this respect, led to the conclusion that he 
expected. Exquisite music, poured forth by a well trained orchestra — 
thrilling songs from the lips of grace and beauty — the scenic illusion of a 
well imagined drama, man’s glorious transferor Nature’s purest excellences 
to the imitative canvass — all took possession of her soul — all stirred up the 
j seeds of wonder, admiration, and delight, that till now had lain dormant in 
her composition, and gradually roused her thoughts from that cloudy tinge 
I of melancholy which her disappointed inquiries after Seaton had imposed 
upon them. 

But this was not the only advantage that De Mara reaped from this intro- 
duction of a continual round of amusement. It not only roused Madeline 
from her feelings of discomfort, but gave her an eujouissance for the society 
of her companions. It is difficult to be continually happy in company with 
a certain set of individuals, without imbibing a kindly feeling towards the 
individuals themselves ; they become identified with our content of mind, 
and their presence adds to our own self-complacency. Pleasure is not 
only pleasurable in itself but receives a fresh accession of the same sensa- 
tion from anticipation and retrospection ; and no circumstance gives more 
immediate rise to this “ first and last,” than the presence of those with 
whom we have enjoyed, or are to enjoy, any given amusement. The 
heart is filled at such an epoch, and runs over at the tongue ; notes are 
compared, impressions are balanced, images and feelings are developed, 
and every moment something new, or hitherto unperceived, is added to 
what was formerly supposed to be the ultimatum of the pleasure capable of 
being produced by the stated enjoyment. 

Madeline felt ail this with an uncommon keenness of perception ; for, 
while she was the child of nature, and only gave utterance to those first 
impressions which the higher w r orks of art will produce on the simple ima- 
gination, De Mara and Deboos, who were her chief companions, supplied 
her active spirit w’ith quaint allusions, apt illustrations, and other supplies, 
drawn from education and a knowledge of the world, which taught her first 
to pause at her ow n ignorance, and then eagerly to pursue the subject to 
the very utmost of their information. 

But though the names of De Mara and Deboos are here coupled, there 
was a great distinction betw'een the two in the mind of Madeline. For 
Deboos, as Madame Lelande, she entertained affection and respect ; but 
there was, nevertheless, something in the manner of this female which 
inspired the maiden with awe, and which prevented her drawing close to 
* 50—6 


62 


TRANSFUSION : OK, THE 


her as the companion of her lighter hours— as the confidante of her freest 
thoughts. With De Mara she had none of this restraint. He appeared to 
her amiable, attentive, aud desirous of meeting her every wish ; he found 
the means of bringing himself down to her own level of worldly knowledge j 
or, if he ever tutored her, it was with the joyous ease of a companion, rather 
than the superior information of a master. She had the sensation within 
her that she could ask him any question without feeling that she was ex- 
posing herself to contempt or ridicule ; and she felt grateful, without know- |1 
mg it, for the facility with which he moved on the same plane with herself. 

Although it was no part of the count’s design that Madeline should i 
shrink from the closest intimacy with the pretended Madame Lalande, the j 
contrary being the case was highly advantageous to his purpose, for it I 
more completely threw the maiden upon him as a companion ; and, in equal 
proportion, afforded him opportunities of making for himself an interest in 
her heart. The word love had not yet passed the lips of De Mara, nor jj 
had it entered the mind of Madeline ; but, though the word was absent, 
the sentiment was fast taking possession of her mind. Courteousness, 
amiability, watchfulness, address, and personal beauty, as far as beauty i3 
compatible with genuine manliness, were all in favour of the count ; and he 
beheld with secret and well-dissembled rapture, that he was rapidly gaining 
supreme empire over the heart of his proposed victim. 


CHAPTER XI, 


Nature, that loves not to be question’d 
Why she did this or that, but has her ends , 

And knows she does well, never gave the world 
Two things so opposite, so contrary, 

As he and I arc. 

Beaumont and Fletcher’s Philastsr. 

Innocence, the sacred amulet 
’Gainst all the poisons of infirmity, 

Of all misfortune, injury, and death.— Old Plat. 


The only drawback to Count de Mara’s delight at tne progress of his 
scheme was the evident dissatisfaction of Albert at what was going on. 
The young man had never been able to get over the first impressioiT that 
De Mara’s conduct had left upon his mind ; and the dislike which the 
count, on the other hand, had imbibed for him, owing to his supposed inter- 
terence on the day ot the orphan’s journey 1o Geneva, had in no wise 
tended to bring them more closely together. But, though this feeling was 
predominant in De Mara’s mind, he had by no means permitted himself to 
neglect the boy as long as he was unsure of an interest in the heart of his 

S1 ^L r \^ j r rt ’ I s y e , as e , ver y other person or circumstance connected 
with Madeline, had been duly considered, and a reception given to him 
such as appeared to the schemer most likely to afford satisfaction to his 
mistress. 

Thus far all was sufficient to lull any feeling of neglect towards her 
brother that mi*ht otherwise have taken root in Madeline’s bosom • 
but had Albert been disposed to complain, there was still enough in the 
conduct of the count to justify the step. Man of the world as De Mara 
was, there was nevertheless something in his relative situation with Albert 
to embarrass him. The youth’s unfortunate bereavement of hearing re- 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN, 


6S 

fused the count those opportunities of sifting his character through his own 
confessions, that in any other case would have been his surety as to the 
game he was to play ; and the natural hesitation that arises between two 
persons, both of whom have reason to think that there is a mutual misun- 
derstanding existing in each other's mind, considerably strengthened the 
embarrassment that the count fell from the above-mentioned cause. 

Albert, however, was not of a complaining disposition. Whatever his 
sorrows might be, they were always borne with meekness, and he had 
learned from the state of deprivation under which he had all his life la- 
boured, patiently to bow to that which discomforted him, rather than use- 
lessly to tight against it. Nevertheless, there was no want of firmness of 
mind in this. In fact, this very characteristic proceeded from strength of 
intellect — but it was the strength of endurance, not that of execution. 

Albert’s original cause of dissatisfaction with the count is already made 
known ; but by this time a second ground had arisen — not perhaps so 
much attributable to De Mara himself as the first — but equally forcible in 
making Albert regard the meeting with that nobleman as an unfortunate 
■event for himself and his sister. 

We have seen in the last chapter how successfully the count pursued 
his object of gaining the affections of Madeline. If Albert did not also 
perceive this, at all events he perceived the effects that that success pro- 
-tlifced. When he was living at Umvalden, he had been in the keeping of 
his natural counsellors, and the attentions of his parent and of Madeline 
were as though he had two mothers tending him. It was not the difference 
of two years only that gave rise to the protecting character which Made- 
line had thus obtained. The misfortune under which he laboured had 
doubly thrown him upon her for amusement, instruction, and regard ; and 
the bonds of affection between them had become proportionally strong. 
When their mother died, all these feelings mounted still higher, and to 
Albert his sister was a3 necessary as the compass to the mariner who has 
left all trace of land behind. 

Thus much then for their former situation ; — but since their arrival at 
Geneva things are changed. It was impossible for a young and beautiful 
w oman, with a mind as vivid and as rapid of perception as Madeline’s 
was, to burst from solitude to what in the comparison was the aenfe of 
gaiety, without unconsciously admitting a change into her manners and 
thoughts. The suddenness of the transition took her, as it vvere, out of 
her former self : she was wrapt in a novel and irresistible habit of excite- 
ment ; and the power which she possessed over the count — the ease with 
which he bowed to all her wishes — the facility with which he adopted her 
suggestions and turned them into realities — all contributed to make a new 
creature of her. 

The effect, of this alteration of circumstance was keenly felt by her 
brother. Instead of being a companion — or rather, as formerly, a some- 
thing between a mistress and a servant to him — Madeline was little more 
than a sort of dropper in upon his weary hours. When indeed he did 
have her to himself, and she again devoted her minutes to his amusement, 
he felt that her powers of giving delight had been enhanced by the novel- 
ties she had gained in her absence ; but this superiority of attraction again 
only the more embittered the hours when her presence was wanting. 

This, then, was the second ground of dissatisfaction which Albert found 
towards the count. So thorough was his belief in the entireness of his 
sister’s affections towards himself, that he did not for a moment attribute 
to her the change that had taken place. He looked round for the circum- 
stances that had caused it, and he found them in the actions of De Mara. 
It was he who engrossed Madeline’s attention when they were within 
•doors — and it was he that was for ever proposing excursions, visits, and 


61 


transfusion: or, the 


parties of pleasure, in which Albert was a mere cipher and dead letter. 
This being the sum of Albert’s observations, it naturally followed that the 
estrangement which he already entertained towards the count should be 
heightened, and that in his own inward eommunings, which in proportion 
as he was deprived of the companionship of Madeline became more and 
more frequent, he should acutely feel the disappointed hours that he owed 
to the appearance of the stranger. 

Let us, however, here take an opportunity of doing justice to Madeline. 
Had she for a moment perceived— or even supposed — the pain that her 
change of manners was indicting on her brother, from that instant she 
would again have exclusively become his companion, his solace, and his 
attendant. But how could she perceive the effect that her change had 
caused in Albert’s feelings, when she was not even conscious that that 
change in herself had taken place ? As we have before had occasion to 
remark, the essence of the girl’s temperament was ardency. Ardeney was 
equally her good and her evil genius ; — her good genius, as it had led her 
to that excess of devotion to the service of her unfortunate brother, which 
had so soothed his sorrows ; — her evil genius, as it was now plunging her * 
into too rash and headlong an enjoyment of the gay scenes with which it 
was the count’s care incessantly to feed her disposition. If Albert was 
neglected, it was not that her affection for him was diminished in the mi- 
nutest iota— but that she suffered herself to be hurried down the stream* of 
temptation, without giving herself time to consider whether what was de>- i 
lightful to her was not distasteful to him. 

The care with which Albert concealed his dissatisfaction from his sister 
was another argument in palliation of her not perceiving the effect that her 
change had upon him. It was in this point of view that the youth showed 
that endurance was one of his virtues. He perceived the zest with which 
his sister had entered into the gaieties of Geneva, and the happiness that ( 
they afforded her ; and he was too affectionately interested in her content- 
merits to suffer a word or a look of his to run counter to her satisfaction. 
Indeed his chief delight, now that he was to so great an extent shut out i 
from her course of thought, was to sit and gaze at the joyous smiles that 
illumined her face: it was his map of pleasures, whereon were laid down 
the different lands and seas that made his little world of observation ; and, 
though perhaps the whole was not planned out with sufficient clearness, he 
was content in the spirit of kindliness to act on the mistake which the poet 
in the spirit of satire lays to the charge of geographers, who 

on pathless downs 

Place elephants instead of towns ; 

and so long as latitude and longitude come within the tropics of joy, Albert 
cared little for the peculiar from which they originated. 

But the re-action of his reflections fell all the heavier for this upon the 
count ; and in proportion as he acquitted his sister of unkindness, the in- 
trusion of that nobleman wa3 aggravated in his eyes. Perhaps a deeper 
philosopher than Albert would have felt that thanks were due to the indi- 
vidual who had thus heightened the enjoyment of a person whom he loved 
so entirely ; but Albert could not regard without envy the engrossing qual- 
ity of De Mara’s attentions to Madeline ; nor had he forgotten the for- 
wardness of his manners at the inn, which, from the very ffrst moment of 
their becoming acquainted, had impressed him with the feeling that there 
was an assumption of superiority on the part of the stranger, which was 
not compatible with a happy issue to the intimacy that had succeeded. 
Had the youth been more acquainted with the world and the world’s ways, 
he would probably have taken steps gradually to alienate his sister from 


ORPHANS OF UJNWALDEN. 


65 


the count, and to render the visits of the latter less frequent. But Albert’s 
capacity did not consist in such manoeuvres as these. He was not without 
knowledge ; for his mother, whose ingenuity had been the means of teach- 
ing him to read and talk in spite of his unfortunate bereavement, had taken 
care to follow up these first steps by putting into his hands the best books 
she could procure : but his knowledge was not of a sort likely to be useful 
in contending against the subtlety of such an accomplished intriguer as the 
Count de Mara ; and Albert therefore was obliged to he content to endure 
the annoyance to which his presence gave rise, without taking any active 
steps to relieve himseif from the burden. 

Another apology for Madeline’s apparent neglect of her brother was the 
intimacy with which she perceived to be growing up between him and the 
supposed Madame Lalande. Although this lady could he sufficiently sar- 
castic, or even repulsive, when it was a Chevalier Altoz that she had to en- 
gage, yet towards the gentle Albert her characteristics were .entirely dif- 
ferent. In her intercourse with the youth there was no encounter of wits 
— no suspicious compliments that leaned more towards invective than good- 
will. On the contrary, Albert regarded her as the early and respected 
friend of the being whom he had loved best and lamented most ; and, as 
such, bowed to her suggestions and remarks with the most confident reli- 
ance. This feeling, that originally sprang from association and sentiment, 
soon established itself on the surer foundation of superiority of intellect 
and decision of character, for in Deboos both these qualities prevailed in 
an eminent degree; and to a mind like Albert’s, weak in its practical 
scope, though strong in its power of judgment, such characteristics had 
more than their usual weight. 

The attention and respect which Albert paid to her were, in the first in- 
stance, highly flatteiing to the fictitious Madame Lalande, and this feeling 
gradually ripened into affection towards the youth. Deboos had not always 
been the slave of wicked intriguers, or at the service of those who carried 
their money in their hand ; nor had her present debasement entirely over- 
whelmed those earlier sentiments which are the native inmates of every 
human bosom, till crimes, or misfortunes, or hardships, have ossified them, 
and made them insensible to feeling. Albert’s conduct towards her, there- 
fore, not only took her by surprise, but found a nook within her heart not 
absolutely filled up. Long was it unavailing— slow was it in penetration— 
but at length it effected a lodgment in the deserted corner, and summoned 
the owner back, to long- forgotten sensations of kindness and cherislimcnt. 

Madeline, without particularly scanning the progress of this companion- 
ship, saw it rise into sufficient intimacy to make her rejoice that Albert had 
found in her mother’s chosen friend a person from whom he could obtain 
advice and amusement. It delighted her to find that they were ever together, 
and that Madame Lalande never seemed better pleased than when she 
was pursuing some course in which Albert could take part and feel an 
interest* 

But the maiden, as was her wont, judged somewhat too hastily in coming 
to this conclusion. Had she been right, Albert would not so bitterly have 
felt her engrossment by the count. It was true, indeed, that he made a 
companion* of Deboos — but she was not a complete companion She had 
instruction for him, and even amusement — but not that wonderful sympathy, 
that fine intermingling of heart and soul in his occupations, with which 

Madeline’s actions appeared always to teem. , , 

It was not immediately that Deboos perceived the impression that Albert 
had made upon her mind. Her first mtercouse with lnm arose rather from 
necessity than from choice ; for although Madeline was attentive |o her, 
as she was bound to be to the supposed ultimate of her de cease d mother, 
yet her time was for the most part occupied by the count and his never- 
6 * 


66 


TRANSFUSION : OR, THE 


failing inventions to attract her imagination, when it was Debooa’ care, of 
course, not to interfere more than was absolutely necessary. 

At these periods, and they were of pretty frequent recurrence, Albert was 
her natural resource ; and though she at first handled him as a toy of indif- 
ference, taken up lor want of something better to while away the listless 
hours, she soon found, to her surprise, that there were seeds within his 
composition which promised the most goodly harvest, and which rendered 
the lending of them a delightful task. 

While matters stood thus, a circumstance occurred, not of much value in 
itself, but sufficient to confirm Deboos most effectually in the kindly feelings 
she had begun to entertain towards Albert. 

As soon as this artful woman found she had succeeded in imposing her- 
self on the orphans of Unwalden as the friend of their mother, she had pro- 
ceeded, under the direction of De Mara, to furnish them with apartments, 
at which she was a daily visiter, having, in order to avoid the chance of an 
unlucky tclaircissement , made a satisfactory excuse for not lodging her guests 
in her own house ; to which abode, for the same reason, she had always 
avoided introducing them. It was at these lodgings provided for the new 
comers that the count made his daily appearance, always taking care to 
arrive after Deboos, in order that the delicacy of Madeline might not be 
alarmed in receiving a visit from him alone. 

It happened one morning that the fictitious Madame Lalande had suffered 
her usual hour of arrival considerably to elapse without making her appear- 
ance ; and by no very extraordinary coincidence some trifle caused Made- 
line to be eagerly watching for her coming, so that each moment of her 
absence was counted. At length, the fineness of the morning tempting 
her, and having some vague idea of the quarter of the city in which the 
residence of the lady was situated— though vague it only could be, for 
Deboos had always answered with uncertainty any question that tended 
to draw from her her exact address— she set out in the hope that she might 
either find her way to Madame Lalande’s abode, or meet her on her route 
thence. 


Madeline had not long been gone on this errand before the count arrived. 
He was surprised at the maiden’s absence, for it was unlike her usual 
habits ; but he at first concluded that she and Deboos had gone out to°-ether. 
When, however, he learned from Albert the real state of the case, and that 
it was to the delayed arrival of Madame Lalande that Madeline's exit was 
attributable, his surprise quickly changed into anger towards his a^ent, for 
thus, by her absence, provoking the egress of his mistress. 

At this moment Deboos arrived without having met Madeline on her 
road. It was an unsuspicious minute, for the count was full of disappoint- 
ment, and (allowing for the deafness of Albert) there were none by to check 
his expression of it. J 

Perhaps, had the count, before he commenced the attack, paused for a 
moment to scan her countenance, he might have altered his intention. The 
expression that dwelt in the lines of her face, and the rapid movement of her 
eye, would have reminded him of that strange aspect which had greeted 
him on the night on which he had beat so long and so loud at her door and 
which taught him by implication, that it was no time to trifle, or to venture 
too far with a roused woman of Deboos’ temperament. 

Without, however, any such pause, he received her on entering with a 
low bow to the ground. Deboos might have mistaken the sentiment— but 
she looked I in his face, and it was impossible. Giving her hand to Albert 
m token of a kind good-morrow, she returned the count’s greeting with as 
slowly profound a curtesy. ® 

“ T our ^lute,” cried the angry nobleman, “ is typical of the speed with 
which you move. I return you my best thanks for the way in which you 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEW. 67 

discharge your duty. Perhaps by this time Madeline may have escaped 
me for ever.” 

Deboos was, as ever, in no humour to submit to a taunt in silence. “ As 
to my salute,” replied she, “ you can have no claim to quarrel with that, for 
its grade was borrowed from your own. And as to my speed, as you your- 
self have compared it to what was copied from yourself, I should be equally 
free from censure in your eyes.” 

“ Answered like a wrangler,” cried the count, still more sourly, “ ever 
defending most vehemently where there is least room for defence. I tell 
you, madam, my money has been paid for your time — Heaven knows dearly 
enough ; and therefore most just cause of complaint have I when 1 find my 
whole plans running a thousand risks, because you cannot rise in time to 
suit decent people.” 

“Count,” cried the accused hastily, “ were your miserable taunts worth 
answering, I would tell you that it was your business, and not mine, that 
detained me this morning. To gratify you I employed an agent to remove 
Madame Lalande, who is now the bane of my every hour, and who, if once 
let loose, would effectually mar every thing.” 

“Psha! woman, do you think 1 am to be deceived by these hacknied 
terms of Romance, or that a Centaur with a Chimaera for a tail can frighten 
me. I am more angry with you for attempting to pass such a trick upon 
me, than at the failure for which this was intended as an excuse.” 

“ De Mara, one day you may be made to know.” 

“ Be silent, madam, I pray — ” 

“ Silent ! Am 1 first to be accused, and then deprived of my light to — ?” 

“Oh! the eleven thousand virgins,” cried the count, “what hurricane is 
this ?” And he hastily put his hand on Deboos’ mouth, more perhaps in 
joke than in earnest, but sufficiently unceremoniously to awaken the anger 
of Albert ; who, though he had not been able to hear this scene, had w atched 
it with growing interest, well interpreting the feeling that dictated each 
sentence, and not a little hurt that the count, a mere visiter, should presume 
to speak with such angry tone and gesture to one that was held so dear by 
Madeline and himself. But when De Mara proceeded so far as to stop the 
mouth of Madame Lalande, Albert was roused into action ; and what per- 
haps he would not in a hundred years have done for himself, his affection 
and manhood irresistibly impelled him to do for her whom he believed to be 
his mother’s kind adviser and his own protecting counsellor. He pushed 
rapidly between the two without uttering a word ; and giving the noble- 
man an unexpected thrust, which nearly threw him from his balance, he 
placed Deboos’ arm within his own, as if intimating he was determined at 
all hazards to continue his interference in her behalf. 

The count, though his dignity as well as his person was somewhat 
overbalanced by Albert’s unceremonious move, perceived in an instant that 
he had made a false step, and hastened to retrieve if. Indeed, for the 
moment of the action, which had so excited the reprehension of the orphan, 
he had quite forgotten his presence in the room, and consequently had not 
calculated the effect that it would produce upon him. 

It is unnecessary, however, to puruse this scene further. It. is sufficient 
to remark that this transaction was the parent of two effects. The one was, 
that the mutual suspicion of the count and of Albeit was increased -the 
former feeling that there was something extant in the youth’s spirit, of 
which he had not formerly been aware, but which appeared to be ol a 
nature formidable and difficult to be managed ; — while the latter (with all 
his mind set upon an action of which his whole previous life of monotony 
could not furnish the parallel) perceived that something now existed and 
was on record, tangibly expressive of the sense he had always entertained 
of Dc Mara. The other effect that here took its origin was that produced 


68 


transfusion: or, the 

in the mind of Deboos. Albert’s little action in her behalf had penetrated 
her very heart. The husk of her time-seared feelings fell away before it, 
and was destroyed, for she acknowledged in it the first overt act that for 
many and many a year had been done to redeem her from among the 
neglected of the world. Hitherto, though her heart had been gradually 
yielding, she had looked with jealousy on the movements of Madeline in her 
favour, and even on those of Albert: she had endeavoured to steel herself 
against them. She had said, *• These are pleasant, but they are fallacies : 
a non they will fall off, and be as nothing ; and Deboos in her old age must 
take care that she is not again the victim of sympathy and girl-hearted- 
ness.” But this little act of Albert had caused a total revolution in her 
thoughts. It was now she who sought the youth, and not he her ; and she 
became as attached to him, as devoted to his wishes, and as anxious of his 
movements, as if she really had been the chosen and confidential friend of 
his mother, or even that mother herself. 

As Madeline, by common consent, w r as not made acquainted with this 
transaction, her feelings towards all parties remained the same; and the 
count still found her the willing partaker of his proposed round of amuse- 
ments— the bashful, but not unheedful, listener to his tale of love. Imper- 
ceptibly, but by irresistible gradations, the net that De Mara had so artfully 
woven round her was closing upon her ; and her anxious look in his absence, 
her joy-illumined countenance in his presence, were the unerring foretellers 
of the success of the nobleman in implanting his image on her heart. 


CHAPTER XII. 

Nor censure us, you who perceive 
My best beloved and me, 

Sigh and lament, complain and grieve, 

You think we disagree. 

Alas ! ’tis sacred jealousy, 

Love raised to an extreme, 

The only proof ’twixt them and mo — 

We love and do not dream. — R ochester. 

The Count De Mara, having thus far gained his point in carrying the 
affections of Madeline, thought that the time for pressing his suit more 
vigorously was fully arrived, and he turned his attention to the way in 
which this might be most skilfully executed. The great bar to his progress 
now seemed to be Albert’s continual presence at all his interviews with 
Madeline, conscious as lie was that the brother must be watching every one 
of his motions as regarded the sister, and scanning his intentions towards 
her with the most jealous survey. But De Mara began to hope that the 
time was at length come when he had interest enough in Madeline’s affec- 
tions to venture putting himself in the scale against Albert, and that if the 
approaching steps were managed with caution, it would be no difficult 
task gradually to detach the orphans from their present close bond of union* 
Part of the labour was already done : Madeline had adopted a chain ot 
amusements in which Albert felt but slight interest; for to him music's 
poetry was dead, and the gay dramatic scene was a sort of minor torture 
where the eye only informed the mind more forcibly of the loss which sho 
had elsewhere sustained : and, on the other hand, the brother had found a 
new companionship m the attentions of Deboos, which appeared to be daily 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


69 


more relished and desired. All that remained, therelore, for the count to 
do was to adopt the foundation that was already laid, and build a goodly 
superstructure on it, fit in its qualities and parts to effect the manoeuvre 
which he had in hand. 

The feelings that had by turns pervaded De Mara’s mind with respect 
to Albert are not unworthy of notice. When he first saw him at the road- 
side inn, he scarcely observed him, except so far as he formed a feature in 
Madeline’s delicious narrative which had carried the count’s whole soul 
along with it. He might have been a human creature, or he might not, 
for any thing that the count condescended to know about him. He was a 
neutrality — a piece of furniture — a something that made up the tout ensemble 
of the apartment, admitted to a place on the expectation and understanding 
of being of no significance. It is one of the grand mistakes of those lovers, 
who think they condescend in loving where they do, to pass over as unob- 
servant all the former retinue of their mistress. Such a suitor hopes to 
make his love individual, and to get rid of what he holds to be superfluities, 
but what the other party has always looked to as component parts of her- 
self. He imagines that as he loves only one member of a body that have 
hitherto been indissolubly joined, the remainder is to be thrown away at his 
beck and bidding, and be annihilated at “ the whiff and wind” of his sic 
jubeo. It is as though he would adopt from choice Ceres’ hapless mistake, 
and feed only on the shoulder of Pelops, rejecting the rest of the dish. It 
was thus with the Count De Mara ; and, Frenchman as he was, he forgot 
the maxim inculcated by one of the greatest philosophers of his nation, when 
he says, “ I should approve a soul that had divers stories in its structure — 
one that knows how to bend and how to slacken ; that finds itself at ease 
in every condition of fortune, that can converse with a neighbour of his 
buildings, his hunting, or any trifling dispute between him and another ; 
that can chat with a carpenter or gardener with pleasure.” But De Mara 
could not do these things gracefully even when his interest required it. 
Either his nature was averse to the condescension, or he deemed his own 
merits sufficient without calling in the aid of so adventitious an ally. 

But when the scene changed from the road- side inn to Geneva, the as- 
pect in which the count was to behold Albert was altered perforce. He 
found on observation the affection between the orphans so complete, that it 
was impossible for him to be present with the one without being in company 
with the other ; and though Albert’s want of hearing prevented his joining 
to any great extent in the conversation, he was still sufficiently one of the 
party to require the notice of the count, and to claim his attention as long 
as he would stand well with Madeline. The events that subsequently took 
place, and which have been already noticed, again changed the count’s 
feelings towards the youth. He was no longer a neutrality, or, if so, it was 
an armed one ; and there was reason every moment to dread that he would 
break out into open war. 

Here then was an abundance of reason for De Mara to do his utmost to 
wean Madeline from her affection for her brother ; and as soon as he had 
instructed De-boos to take advantage of the kindness which existed between 
her and Albert, in order that there might be something of a check even on 
that side, the count set himself seriously to work at his task, in the con- 
fident expectation that a very short time would be sufficient to effect his 
project in all its parts. 

In the first two or three instances he succeeded as well as he could wish. 
Fortune seemed to work with him, and make excuses for him ; and he felt 
that in proportion as he and Madeline were alone, his suit proceeded with 
renovated ardour. Crowned with success, he became more emboldened • 
and seizing the opportunity of Madame Lalande one evening declaring 
herself too unwell to join a party that had been agreed upon for the theatre, 


70 


transfusion: or, the 


he ventured to propose that he and Madeline should proceed thither, and 
that Albert should stay behind as a companion for the invalid. 

This arrangement was objected to on the part of Madeline, who declared 
that as Madame Lalande required a companion, she would stay with her ; 
and that the count and Albert should proceed to the theatre together, the 
representation that evening being qne which the latter had long desired to 
see, as it was the revival of a piece which had been much talked of through- 
out Switzerland, and which, as it was to be acted entirely in pantomime, 
would easily come within the scope of his apprehension. 

This decision placed both Deboos and De Mara on the horns of a 
dilemma. Deboos, knowing that the count would be glad to have her say 
that she wished Albert to remain behind, did not dare express it, lest it 
might confirm Madeline still more peremptorily in her decision ; while the 
count was awakened out of the delicious reverie he had been enjoying at 
the idea of spending a whole evening with Madeline alone, to find the 
very person, whom of all others he dreaded and detested, foisted upon him 
instead : nor did he know howto demur to this arrangement of his mistress, 
without throwing himself open to suspicion on the one hand or the other. 

Madeline saw the hesitation with which he was wavering, and forced an 
explanation upon him, by exclaiming, “ Are we going to have two invalids, 
count ? or has the loss of two ladies at once so overwhelmed you as to take 
away all power of utterance ?” 

“ And is it not such a loss,” replied the lover, “ sufficient to account for 
the effect produced ? I had hoped that by this time my young friend 
Albert knew enough of Madame Lalande's constitution to be the proper 
person to undertake her cure, without requiring a consultation of physi 
cians to help him through his diagnosis.” 

“ But it was not a consultation of physicians that is proposed ; only to 
substitute one for another. Come, count, Albert is quite ready ; and I long 
to have my patient all to myself.” 

“ Nay, but if you insist on turning physician, my good Madeline,” cried 
Madame Lalande, “ the count has a fair right to insist on turning patient. 
Come, let us put off' the threatre for to-night, and unite in being sick.” 

De Mara gave the proposer of this scheme a look, as much as to say — 
“ That is not the footing on which I would have the thing placed ;” and 
then remarked, “ I cannot be sick at will ; nor, if I could, should this be 
the opportunity I would take, for I should find it but a poor substitute for 
the pleasure that was to have been mine. Come, dear Madeline, think 
better of it, and do not cheat Madame Lalande of her faithful nurse.” 

“ I am sure,” said the maiden, thus appealed to, “ that, if I imagined for 
a moment that my dear madame would be dissatisfied with the change, i 
would cease to press it ; but I long for an opportunity of showing her how 
well I can rival even Albert in that capacity. And look at the boy ; sec, 
he has not yet caught from our countenances the subject of our conversa- 
tion, so that his own face is still lighted up with the anticipated pleasure of 
seeing something that he will be able to comprehend throughout. So, 
good count, be obedient to your faith as a preux chevalier, and wish us 
‘ good night.’ ” 

“ But a preux chavalier's duty,” replied De Mara, still seeking to contest 
the point, “ is to attend on the ladies ; and, if you insist on this arrangement, 
you will not only deprive me, but Albert, of all claim to the character. 
Come, let me rule this evening, and your brother shall be gratified another 
night.” 

“ Now, if I did not know you love argument for argument- sake,” said 
Madeline, somewhat seriously, “ 1 should feel hurt at your still opposing 
me. But as I have no doubt you have a good chain of reasoning to urge 
m defence, I will be content to meet you half-way.” 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEJT. 


71 


“ My best Madeline,” cried her lover, his brow clearing up and gaiety 
again sparkling in his eye, “ I am sure you would comply.” 

“In all that is reasonable, you would say. Just so ; so let this be thd 
arrangement : go now with Albert to the theatre, and to-morrow morning. 
I promise to hear your arguments, pro and con, with the patience of a bur^ 
gomaster and the deliberation of a congress of statesmen.” 

De Mara’s countenance fell into gloom as rapidly as it had risen into 
gladness. “Your decision,” said he, “puts me in mind of the way in 
which an old English poet opens one of his shorter pieces : — 

I oft have heard of Lydford law, 

How in the morn they hang and draw, 

And sit in judgment after. 

J Or, perhaps it may more fairly be likened to the judge who alw’ays quar* 

' relied with those who had any thing to say in their defence, because it 
served to confound the clearness of the charge.” 

“ Sir,” said Madeline — “but I see how it is. Your inclinations and 
my wishes must come in opposition only for the latter to yield ; and 1 
I thank you for the lesson.” 

“ That is unjust, Madeline. Your pleasure is mine. But it would seem 
beyond ail fairness to require me to assume the office of leading-strings to 
Albert, for whom I am as little a companion as he is one for me.” 

“ Then I am to understand that you refuse your companionship to Albert 
this evening at the theatre ?” 

“ I do not refuse it,” said De Mara, afraid, from Madeline’s manner, that 
he had gone too far, “ but I complain of the arrangement ; and, indeed, 
I am afraid that it is now too late for any of us to go, for it is already half 
an hour beyond the time of commencement.” 

“ Count de Mara,” said the girl, with a firmness which had been little 
expected, “it is well that you should understand me rightly. Albert is as 
myself : he* for whom the boy is no companion, can be no friend of mine, 
i have the honour of wishing you good night.” 

Both Deboos and the Count gazed on the speaker with astonishment. 
The former sighed deeply, as she might do, who had been unexpectedly re- 
l minded of the foregone scenes of pain and pleasure that belonged to her 
own history. The latter looked on in silence for a few moments, during 
which a myriad of passions, and grades of passions, traversed his course 
of thought. 

At length he broke silence. “ Dear Madeline, why such words as 
I these? Is it forbidden me to speak of sympathies being wanting, as well 
as sympathies in existence ? Is it denied me — ” 

“ Pray, no more, Count de Mara : I know the subtlety of your tongue ; 
and doubt not you have wisdom enough to silence a simple villager. But 
even such skill as yours cannot throw a coat of darkness over my heart. 
Merciful Heaven ! have I been in danger of learning to think well of him 
who would teach me to think ill of my Albert? Poor boy!” added she, 
as she pressed him to her bosom, “ where are your miseries of my inflic- 
tion to end ? Is it not enough that my fault forbids your looking back at 
your mother’s memory, lest you should remember my error? Is it not 
enough that I have torn you asunder from the kindest protector that Hea- 
ven ever sent to throw a shield over your hapless fate, but must I also be 
the tempter of companions to flout at you ?— Must I be the summoner of 
associates who hold up their hands in contempt of you ? Count de Mara, 

I entreat you to quit us. Speak to him, good Madame Lalande. Tell this 
despiser of my brother that he has no right to hold the mirror to my guilty 
conscience, and inflict wretchedness on me by showing me my offenceB.” 


72 


transfusion: or, the 


De Mara, accustomed as he was to the ways of women, could not with- 
stand the earnestness of these exclamations ; still less could he resist the 
varying expression of her countenance, now streaming with tenderness 
towards her brother, and presently blackening into anger towards him who 
had provoked this scene. With hesitation, with reluctance, lingering in 
each step that carried him to the door, he withdrew. 

The feelings that accompanied him to his hotel were nearly beyond en- 
durance, and seemed as though they would fritter his very heart into 
shreds. He cursed his own folly — he cursed Deboos’ sickness— he cursed 
Albert’s very existence — he cursed Madeline in her obstinacy and resist- 
ance. Now,' for the first time, he really began to form a just conception 
of her fiery temperament, and well understood how it was that her uncle 
had been offended past forgiveness. But w hen he looked at the situation 
in which he found himself, then it w r as that his bosom swelled with the 
deepest pang, and his heart heaved highest within his breast. For nearly 
a month had he been incessantly at work in obtaining Madeline’s affec- 
tions ; and now, in one short hour, he had more than undone all that was 
done before. He had deserted all other objects of pursuit — had been 
laughed at by his boon companions for his slow' pertinacity — and, at last, 
with a breath — a word — a look, found himself excluded from all hope, and 
banished from the very presence of his mistress. 

While the count was thus running the round of his prospects destroyed, 
his battle was being fought in the field he had just quitted by an ally that 
he had little expected. As soon as he had departed, the maiden, with high 
indignation in her actions, made Albert acquainted with W'hat had taken 
place. It cannot be denied that the first sensation that presented itself to 
the youth’s mind on receiving this information w'as that of pleasure. The 
count, whom he had never liked, and towards whom he had lately begun 
to entertain a stronger feeling of disapprobation, was disbanded ; and 
never again was his dear Madeline to be taken away from her brother, to 
whose sight she was dear as that of Jerusalem was of yore to the enthu- 
siastic lunatics who crusaded away life, riches, and common sense at the 
bidding of a Boniface or a Pius, whose grasping spirits could not rest till 
they should be able to place one foot as firmly in Asia, as they had im- 
planted the other in Europe. But when Albert took cognisance of all the 
consequences that would attend this change, this first sensation of his 
mind gradually gave w’ay to another. Young as he was, and shut out as 
he had been by his misfortune from a know ledge of the world and of the 
world’s significances, he had not failed to perceive the grow’ing pleasure 
that his sister had taken in the society of De Mara ; and though her heat 
of temper prevented her, on the spur of the moment, displaying the slight- 
est reluctance at the decision she had made, Albert felt, from his owm ex- 
perience, how difficult and how painful it was to be separated from an as- 
sociate, who, on the score of kindness, attention, and the desire to please, 
claimed affinity to those feelings in another’s breast. Before the strength 
of this image his own prejudice against the count rapidly disappeared; 
and he used all his pow'ers of persuasion to induce Madeline to alter her 
determination. 

It w'as long before the sister would yield : at first the very fact of Al- 
bert’s pleading on behalf of the nobleman’s contumacy strengthened her 
determination ; but, as he pleaded, she gradually softened before the bland 
words of the youth, and at length, assisted by skilful inuendoes judicious- 
ly thrown in and supported by the supposed Madame Lalande, who from 
her fictitious character claimed a w'eight for her advice, which it could not 
Otherwise. have had, Albert was triumphant. 

Nor would he rest here. Forgiveness being agreed upon, he contended 
that there w as neither candour nor justice in suppressing its announce- 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


73 


ment ; and, insisting upon his sister writing her relaxation to the cohnt, 
Albert himself claimed the privilege of conveying it forthwith to his lodg- 
ings ; hoping, in the honesty of his heart, that the share he had had in 
effecting the reconciliation, together with his appearance in the happy 
character of a messenger of peace, would obliterate old feelings in De 
Mara’s breast, and give them both an opportunity of improving their opinion 
of each other. 

When Albert arrived at the count’s hotel, he used the privilege which 
he deemed to be belonging to the errand on which he had come, and en- 
tered his apartment without announcement. When he first cast his eyes 
on De Mara, there was an involuntary shudder at the change which had 
taken place in his countenance : the first lines of beauty, which usually 
had possession of his face, were distorted, or rather they had evaporated in 
the boiling of the passions that had there set up his abode ; while his 
features had taken on themselves an expression of ghastliness, as if they 
had been made haggard by a series of painful exertions. 

When De Mara looked up and saw who it was that thus intruded on 
his privacy — none other than his bane, and the very author of all his dis- 
appointments — the devil was strong within him ; and it was as though he 
had to employ the power of a thousand minds to suppress the thoughts that 
flowed thick and fast into his brain. 

The struggle was soon put an end to by Albert giving him the letter 
from his sister; and it was well that it was so ; for such thoughts as those 
do not long hold dominion over the human mind without converting the 
possessor from a man into a demon. 

With a strange agitation De Mara tore open the missive. With a still 
more wondrous sensation he found its contents to be — 

“ If the Count de Mara can forget the painful occurrence of this even- 
ing, Madeline will endeavour to copy his example. Friendships, she is 
told, are too hardly won to be lightly cast away ; and she acknowledges 
the many goodnesses of the count, whom she will not bid alter his opinion 
of poor Albert, but only thank him for having taught his sister to say that 
she is again willing to meet De Mara as a friend.” 

He, to whom these few lines were addressed, felt the full force of the 
hint with which the note concluded, and in the revulsion of his sentiments 
could not help embracing the messenger who had brought him such glad 
tidings. Albert hailed this action as the forerunner of what he had pre- 
saged, and warmly returned the pressure. 

In a short time they were both again in the presence of Madeline, whom 
they found alone, Deboos having taken her leave for the night. To pursue 
the scene of their reconciliation further will only be to repeat a tale that 
has been told a thousand times by painter, poet, and novelist. Let it be 
mentioned, however, that the count did not this time forget his tactics ; 
but, remembering the wily dogma of the Latin poet— that “ the quarrels of 
lovers are the renewal of love,” he embraced the moment of returning 
softness in Madeline’s bosom to make a formal declaration of his passion 
for her, and to obtain from her those bashful admissions which are as cha- 
racteristic of the one sex, as a manly avowal of the heart’s dearest wish is 
of the other. 

Albert heard not ; but he read in their eyes the subject that lighted them 
so brilliantly, and became the mute confidant of their situation. For the 
first time in his life, he felt his heart warm into affection towards the count, 
and began to entertain a hope that the mutual sentiment between them, 
that had commenced so ominously, might turn to better account in the end, 
and promote a hopeful cordiality of feeling. 

50—7 


74 


TRANSFUSION .* OR, THE 


CHAPTER XIII. 

Guise . Oh piteous and horrid murder l 

Beaup. Such a life 
Methinks had metal in it to survive 
An age of men. 

Henry. Such often soonest die. 

Chapman’s Bussy d’Ambois. 

The Count de Mara’s reflections, when he returned to his own lodgings 
that night, were not of the most agreeable nature. It was true that liis 
misunderstanding with Madeline had been cleared up ; but there was still 
enough, both in its commencement and termination, to disagree with tho 
prospects he had hitherto been entertaining. Up to this period, though 
the count had done full justice to the vivacity of disposition and rapidity of 
temper which Madeline possessed, in other respects he had deemed her to > 
be one of the sex, as it had come under his survey and conclusions ; and" 
lie had consequently made up his mind that he was to enjoy with respect 
to her a similar success to that which had crowned his machinations on 
previous occasions. 

But the adventures of the evening had thrown fresh light on his under- 
taking ; and he could not help perceiving that success — of which ultimately 
he did not choose to doubt — was further off than he had imagined ; and 
that considerable time was still necessary to carry his designs into effect. 

It was this that caused his chief uneasiness, for, independently of his own 
eagerness and impatience, he felt that he was in no condition to spare more 
time to the enterprise without entangling himself in dangers which he 
wished to avoid. The period for the return of the real Madame Lalande 
was fast approaching ; it was impossible to tell from day to day how long 
Seaton’s humour of absence would last ; and it was quite clear that the 
appearance of either of these persons would be the signal of his own de- 
feat ; for the specimen of that night was sufficient to show that whatever 
/ove Madeline might have for him, there were other passions within her 
breast, which, when excited, were sufficient to make that love succumb. 
This last thought brought back his mind to Albert with redoubled force. 
The heat of re-action, or rather the unexpected situation which had prevail- 
ed for a moment, had warmed him towards the youth. But the sensation 
was a forced one ; and when with a worldly and a cunning eye he survey- 
ed the whole bearings of the case, his heart soon chilled towards him again, 
and his former disgust at his presence — at his very existence, revived. 
Albert, as he considered him, was the most dangerous enemy he had to 
encounter — the rock, of all others, to be dreaded in piloting this difficult 
voyage. 

The only resource, then,. that he had left was to endeavour to vary hi3 
plan so as to meet, the exigencies of the case. Long did he debate this 
point within himself, and many were the suggestions that his fertile mind' 
afforded ; but they all seemed to be of a vague and unsatisfactory nature, 
for each in its turn was dismissed with the conviction that it was ineffi- 
cient for the purpose required. At length the thought struck him, how far 
it might be expedient to tempt Madeline, or even to carry her off from 
Geneva to some place where he should not be surrounded with such dan- 
gerous chances, and where he might be more at liberty to prosecute his 
plans with safety. 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


73 


The idea of tempting her to such a place, however, was soon abandoned ; 
Cor with all his invention he could not devise any feasible ground that 
should induce her to quit Geneva ; and even, should he succeed in this, 
he could not hope that she would depart without having Albert as a com- 
panion, so that all his trouble and skill would be spent in furthering apian 
which would still leave his chief enemy in possession of the fortress? The 
remainder of the scheme, however, seemed better suited to his purpose, and 
the only doubt he had about it was whether Madeline could be induced to 
forgive this first step, so as to afford him a fair opportunity of employing 
all his arts of address in those which ■were to succeed. At all events the 
business was worth consideration. By staying where he was risks of the 
most dangerous nature were hazarded : — by going elsewhere, and carrying 
Madeline with him, he opened the door to the chance of her displeasure on 
one point only ; besides which, he flattered himself that by employing 
Deboos (as Madame Lalande) judiciously to exculpate the step when 
taken, he should be able to baffle any extraordinary display of feeling on 
the part of his mistress. 

Having thus, at length, determined on the plan that he would pursue, 
the count betook himself to his couch ; but his mind was still too full of the 
“shreds and patches” of plots and schemes to allow his body the repose of 
sleep. But, though wakeful and restless, the hours did not pass tediously. 
No moment elapsed without a scene being present to his mind, in which 
he felt all the deep interest of a principal actor. Madeline, Albeit, Deboos, 
Seaton, and Lalande passed in quick succession over the mirror of his 
brain, and like the multifarious presentations of the kaleidoscope offered a 
continual change of circumstance and situation — himself always figuring 
as the director and prime mover of the whole panorama. 

As day was about to break, the count fell into a heavy slumber, induced 
by the fatigue and anxiety of the hours he had passed ; and the lateness of 
the hour at which he awoke prevented him that morning prosecuting a 
scheme which had formed part of the determinations of the night. It had 
been his intention, in pursuance of those determinations, to be with Deboos 
sufficiently early to anticipate her visit to Madeline, in order that he might 
arrange with that agent the necessary steps for conveying the maiden from 
j Geneva. This opportunity, however, being lost, he determined to avail 
j himself of the first moment he could be alone with Deboos, as he fell that, 
liis scheme once resolved upon, he could not be too speedy in putting it in 
execution. 

That moment for which he looked was the one when the fictitious 
Madame Lalande rose to take leave of the orphans after spending the day, 
as usual with them. On her offering to go, De Mara volunteered his com- 
pany ; and though such a suggestion on his part was not of very frequent 
recurrence, she had too well learned her cue to fall into any arrangement he 
made to express any surprise at the proposal, and they accordingly quitted 
the house together. 

But whatever her surprise might be at this offer, it was infinitely sur- 
passed and overwhelmed by the proposal which he had to make. That 
proposal was one which she had never contemplated ; and still more, it 
was one with which, in her present state of feeling towards the orphans, 
she could never comply. Albert’s affection for her had not only instilled 
the same sensation into her mind with respect to him, but with respect to 
Madeline also ; for she saw how intimate was the association between 
them, and felt that, in showing regard to the sister, she was offering the 
most grateful homage to the brother. 

When, therefore, the count gave her to understand what his intentions 
were, she felt an inexpressible shock. As yet her thoughts had not taken 
any express form, but had been content to dwell with kindness on the 


76 


TRANSFUSION : OR, THE 


image of the orphans, with a sort of vague hope that the ceunt might be so 
far interested in the charms of Madeline, and withheld by her prudence of 
conduct, as to seriously entertain a wish to be united to her in marriage. 
But this unexpected declaration of De Mara entirely overturned any dreams 
of that sort, with which she might have been soothing her expectation ; 
and she found herself called upon to assist in a scheme, the whole spirit of 
which was contrary to her inclinations and desires. 

Long and anxious was the conversation that took place between these 
two on the subject ; and the point which the count had expected would 
have been settled before they reached Deboos’ house, occupied them some 
hours after they had entered her abode. The female had no wish to come 
to open war with the nobleman, and was therefore careful how she ex- 
pressed her feelings, while De Mara, anxious to have the coadjutorship 
of a person who had so much influence with Madeline in her assumed i 
character, explained himself to the full, and endeavoured to combat and 
subdue every objection that she raised to the plan he was proposing. 
Gradually, however, the tone of the conversation changed : — Deboos began 
to perceive that her employer was inexorably attached to his schemes, j 
and that the hopes she had entertained of an honourable proposal being ! 
made to Madeline were nugatory; — while the other discovered that there 
was something in Deboos’ opposition that he could not fathom, but which 
was evidently running counter to the project which he had instituted. 

A detail of the latter part of their discussion will show the humour in 
which they parted for the night. 

u Come, Deboos,” said the count, in answer to a renewed argument on 
her part to show the injudiciousness of his proposed mode of proceeding : 
“Come, madame, be candid with me, and let me really know how the 
case stands. I have marked your words for some time, and am convinced 
that there are reasons behind the curtain, which you have not yet chosen to 
disclose to me.” 

“ There are no reasons,” replied Deboos, “ in my mind, but those which 
have reference to your own benefit : and my own I hold to be included in 
yours. 1 cannot comprehend how I, as Madame Lalande, am to justify a 
proceeding to Madeline, which even, as Madame Deboos, I cannot defend 
to you.” 

“ There lies the point I want to know ; — what has made Madame Deboos 
so amazingly nice all at once?— Is it a visitation— or a recantation — or a 
hallucination that has come over her since yesterday ?” 

“ Nothing has come over me since yesterday,” replied the female, grow- 
ing warm, “ but the news of your prodigious plot; so that, whether it be 
visitation, recantation, or hallucination, the provision is of your own im- 
porting.” 

“ Ah !” cried the other, “ is my antagonist getting to her smart sayings 
and quibbling positions ? Then now I am sure that there is a mystery 
which you would not have me comprehend ; for it is an old manoeuvre of 
yours to attack the temper when the penetration is a little too keen. It was 
the way, I remember, in which Altoz used to become your victim ; but I 
intend to act on a safer system, and therefore beg leave to return to the sub- 
ject from which you would divert me.” 

Deboos was about to repiy m no very conciliatory tone, when a loud 
knock at the outer door arrested her speech, and her attitude was on the 
instant changed into that of a person listening with the most undivided 
attention. The count watched her motions with interest, arising not only 
from the situation of the moment, but because he felt curious as to the 
actions of a being whose motives he had never been able to construe or 
penetrate. 

After the lapse of a minute in this state of suspense, Deboos’ onlY servant 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN 


77 


entered the room, and stated that there was one at the door who wanted to 
speak with her mistress. 

The mistress, in a hasty tone, exclaimed— “ Do you know his ?*» 

and then, interrupting herself, added— “Never mind : at all events show 
i nun into the upper room. Do you understand, Maud ? Up stairs and by 
no means into the adjoining apartment.” * J 

The girl nodded, in confirmation of the directions she had received and 
withdrew’ to obey them. 

i “ I perceive,” said the count, with a smile, “that it is time for me to 
withdraw’. Give me a positive answer, and I will take the hint.” 

“ There is no hint for your going,” replied Deboos, with a forced com- 
posure, “ except the hour of night. That, indeed, might tell you that it is 
too late to stay.” 

“ Too late to stay— but seemingly not too late to arrive. However, that 
is your affair, and not mine; I w’ait only for my answer.” 

“ I can give no other answer than that already spoken. I would have 
you think better of this device ; for, depend on it, the day that you carry it 
into execution will be the day of your losing Madeline for ever. I have a 
woman’s wit, and l have watched the girl’s character with a woman’s 
eye ; and my firm conviction is, that she would never pardon such an 
act.” 

“All which means, 1 suppose,” returned De Mara, “that I am no longer 
to have your assistance in my enterprise.” 

“ It means no such thing,” said the other. “ I have received your money, 

( and would be honest to my w'ord. That money was given me to forward 
your cause ; and I cannot, therefore, do that v hich appears to me calcula- 
ted to ruin it.” 

“ But what if I insist on your compliance with my plan?” 

“ That cannot alter the position in which we stand. I have sold you my 
time and my abilities, but I have not sold you my judgment.” 

“ I understand you,” cried the count ; “ you w’ould make a parade of your 
; conscience ; and, after all, end each sentence in violation of your plighted 
word. But it may happen, madam, that I shall find means to bring you to 
another mode of acting.” 

And on this the count, with anger in his movements, caught up his hat, 
i and flung himself out of the house. 

This was with De Mara another night devoted to w’ayward and unplcas- 
ing reflections. On the previous night he had dedicated his w hole powers 
of argument to persuade himself that he had devised a plan — the best that 
the circumstances of the case w ould permit ; and now, w'hen he had ima- 
gined that he was just about to give full effect to his machinations, tho 
whole was stopped by the defection of his principal instrument. Deboos, 
who had ever been a mystery to him, had now become something utterly 
incomprehensible. He called over to his recollection all the actions of her 
life w ith which he w’as acquainted ; but still he could find no loop-hole by 
which a light w r as thrown in to illumine the ambiguity of her behaviour. 
As far as he could make out, there seemed to be some mystic personage in 
the background, who had influence over her determinations, and was the 
prime mover of her actions. The count recalled to his memory the 
strange expression of her countenance on the night of his first visit to her 
on Madeline’s account— the manner in which she undertook to find an 
agent who should procure the absence of Madame Lalande — the anony- 
mous letter — her ow r n dark and distant hints on the subject — and, finally, 
this strange visit to her at midnight, which she seemed to know’ how to 
deal with, and equally determined to keep secret and unacknowledged. 
The review ing of all these various circumstances, which, though slight in 
themrelves, formed altogether a somewhat important whole, convinced De 


78 


TRANSFUSION : OR, THE 


Mara that his conclusion was right, and that his only chance of making 
Deboos conform with his wishes was to penetrate the enigma in which she 
was enwrapt. 

With this resolution he retired to rest ; but the news that the next morn- 
ing brought him again broke down all the plans that the previous night had 
fostered and matured, and drove him once again into the sea of uncertainty 
and doubt, more unpiloted than ever. 

He had scarcely risen from his bed when Deboos’ servant burst into the 
room, her eye aghast with horror, and her whole manner depicting the 
fear that possessed her mind. 

De Mara gazed at her in silent astonishment, and waited to hear tidings 
in conformity with her' aspect. But she spoke not: it was as though ter- 
ror had laid its icy influence on all the wonted channels of utterance, and 
forbade the issue of her voice. 

At length he exclaimed, “ What now, Maud ? — What has happened V* 

The woman caught, as it were, the power of speech from her questioner. 
“ She is dead !” was her answer ; and then, as if these words had conjured 
some painful vision to her sight, she covered her face with her hands as she 
again muttered convulsively to herself, “ She is dead ! She is dead I” 

De Mara was almost as much aghast as the poor servant at the informa- 
tion ; and it was some time before he could demand a fuller explanation of 
her brief announcement. 

As the death of Deboos, in the course of a few days, became the subject 
of a legal investigation before the magistrates of the city, it is not neces- 
sary to recount the conversation that took place between the nobleman and 
the servant of the deceased. One word as to the situation in which the 
former found himself placed by this unexpected occurrence, and we will 
pass on to the evidence detailed before the syndics of Geneva. 

The whole of the count’s plans were so identified with Deboos, that, on 
his first consideration of the consequences of her decease, it almost ap- 
peared as if the plot was entirely ruined by her disappearance from the 
scene of action. De Mara keenly appreciated the difficulty he had in 
handling her character and disposition, so as to make them available to his 
purposes ; but at the same time he had been so much accustomed, during 
the last month, to act in concert with her, that he could not divest himself 
of his belief in the necessity of her presence. 

There is a story of a hypochondriac who imagined that he ever had a 
wraith, or thing unearthly by his side ; and, under the influence of this 
imagining, his body wasted, and his spirit pined. At length some leech, 
wiser than the rest of his brethren, despatched this troublesome companion 
for ever ; and it was thought the matter was concluded — quite the reverse ; 
for when the poor patient found that his companion had quitted its long- 
accustomed station, he felt that a gap had been made in his circle, and ho 
fell to moaning and lamenting for the loss of his troublesome but necessary 
ally. 

The first feelings of the count were somewhat similar to those of the poor 
hypochondriac. Little was the comfort his wraith had been to him, but 
still he winced under the gap her destruction had occasioned, and he felt as 
if his labour had become doubly onerous on the loss of such a coadjutrix. 
The presence of the supposed Madame Lalande, and the patronage which 
she afforded to his attentions towards Madeline, had been a sort of security 
against any error into which he might be led ; but now that she was gone, 
he felt a double caution was necessary, a more than usual discretion *to be 
exercised to prevent those accidents which her presence would have re- 
duced into trifles, but which, without her, might assume the character of 
importance. 

But, concerning the death of Madame Deboos, 1 have the more willingly 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


79 


omitted the girl’s statement of the circumstances to the Count de Mara on 
the morning of her death, as 1 have been fortunate enough to procure the 
secret and official record of the proceedings taken in the case before the 
syndics of Geneva, and shall be able to extract, for the information of the 
reader, such parts as are necessary to invest him with the more important 
features of the evidence adduced on that occasion. 

My extracts commence thus: — 

Count Richard Felix Mirabel de Mara, aged twenty-nine, sworn : “ On 
ffic evening of the death of Madame Deboos I was at her house ; and, while 
in the course of conversation with her, I heard a loud knock at the street- 
door. After the lapse of a minute, her servant-maid, whose name I believe 
to be Maud Rinvein, entered the room where the deceased and I were 
seated, and announced that a person was without, asking for her mistress. 
The deceased directed the servant to show the inquirer into a room, which 
room I forget, but I particularly remember her laying a stress upon his not 
being shown into the back-room on the same lloor with us ; and I also ob- 
served that, till w r e heard the footsteps of the stranger and the servant over- 
head, the deceased broke off all conversation with me, from which my 
conclusion was that she was desirous either that he should not know that 
she had any one with her, or that no part of our conversation should reach 
his ears. From the moment of our renewing the conversation, I perceived 
an uneasiness about her manner, which I easily interpreted into a desire 
that I should take my leave, which I accordingly did after a stay of a very 
few minutes beyond the arrival of the stranger.” 

Paul Luther Carwin, aged seventy-one, sworn : — “ I occupy the next 
house to the deceased. On the night of her death I was in bed by ten 
o’clock, but awake almost the whole of the night, being afflicted with severe 
rheumatic pains, which greatly disturbed my rest. About two o’clock in 
the morning, as I should guess, a disturbed movement in the house of the 
deceased attracted my attention, but I could not make out its particular 
character. As I conjecture, I should say that it resembled the convulsive 
and resisting heaving of a person in bed ; but this opinion may be partly 
formed from since learning the way in which the body of the deceased was 
found. About five minutes after this I heard one of the street-doors in the 
street clap to, but of which house I cannot take on myself to say.” 

By a syndic : “ How came it, that on hearing the noise you have de- 
scribed, you did not give an alarm?” — “The noise was not much — a 
rumbling rather than a defined sound ; besides which I had been in the 
habit of hearing strange sounds in the house of the deceased. Persons 
have come there late at night ; and I remember, about a month ago, two 
cavaliers coming to the house about two or three in the morning, and 
knocking most violently for several minutes, after which they w'ere admit- 
ted. That very night too another person had been admitted about an hour 
before.” 

(I think it may fairly be inferred, though no minute is made of it in the 
secret and official document from which I quote, that at this point of 
evidence Count Richard Felix Mirabel De Mara bit his lips, and somewhat 
hastily turned his back on the witness; for assuredly his lordship must 
have had a shrew'd guess as to who the two cavaliers were that had paid so 
late a visit to Deboos.] 

Maud Rinvein, aged nineteen, sworn : — [It would appear that the whole 
of this witness’s testimony was thought of great importance, for all her 
evidence is detailed in question and answer.] 

“ In what capacity did you live with the deceased ?” — “ I was her maid- 
servant, and the only one she kept.” 

“ Do you mean by that, that yourself and the deceased were the only 
inmates of the house ?” — “ Yes.” 


80 


TRANSFUSION : OR, THE 


“ At what hour was it that the unknown stranger, vvho now lies under 
suspicion, came to the house ?” — “ We have no clock, in the house, but it 
must have been shortly after midnight.” 

“ Did you open the door to him ?” — “ I did.” 

“Describe, as well as you can, how he was dressed?” — “His person 
was almost entirely covered with a large cloak, so that 1 could only see 
his hat and his boots, which were of the kind usually worn by the lower 
order of the Genevese. The colour of his cloak was brown.” 

“ What did he say was his business ?” — “ He said that he w r anted to see 
1 Deboos.’ I remember particularly his not putting ‘ Madame’ before her 
name, for I thought it very uncivil, and answered him accordingly.” 

“ Relate the rest of the conversat ion that took place.” — “ When he asked 
for my mistress so uncivilly, I told him that if he meant ‘ Madame Deboos, ’ 
she was too much engaged to be seen by every bear that growled at the 
door. And then he laughed so deeply, and so strangely, I should know 
that laugh again if I heard it on my dying bed. After this laugh was over, 
he put out his hand from under his cloak — and a very dirty hand it was — and 
said ‘ Harky'e, Goody, if you do not convey my errand, neck and heels you 
go into the street, and I shall do my own message.’ And when 1 looked at 
him, there was something in his manner — for I could not see enough of his 
face to tell what that indicated— that made me feel that word and deed were 
quick followers with him. So I said, ‘Well, well, good man,’ (God forgive 
me for calling such a monster so) ‘ 1 will go tell my mistress ;’ and I 
did so, for I thought she would be little pleased to have such a third person 
in her conversation with the Count De Mara.” 

“ And you informed her accordingly ?” — “ 1 did ; and my mistress bade 
me show the stranger into the upper room, but by no means into the adjoin- 
ing apartment.” 

“Do you know any reason why she did not wish the man to go into the 
adjoining apartment?” — “None, unless that given by the Count De Mara 
may be deemed sufficient.” 

“ Did any further conversation take place between you and the stranger?” 
— “ 1 merely told him that my mistress had directed me to show him up 
stairs, on which he followed me, and I left him with a candle, as soon as I 
pointed out to him the apartment in which he was to remain.” 

“What occurred next?” — “In a few minutes I heard the Count DeMara 
take his leave ; after which my mistress called to me, and told me to go to 
bed.” 

“ In wnat part of the house was your bed-room ?” — “ For the last three 
weeks I have been sleeping in the kitchen, which is a sort of out-house 
detached from the rest of the building, adjoining another where my mistress 
used to keep lumber ; but, previously, I had always slept in the room on the 
same floor with my mistress, which was up stairs : it was into my former 
bed-room that I showed the stranger.” 

“ Did you hear your mistress go up stairs ?” — “She went up as soon as 
she saw me retire to the kitchen for the purpose of goirjg to bed.” 

“ What further do you know about the events of the night?”— “ While 
I was undressing for bed, I could not help thinking about the stranger that 
was up stairs with my mistress. I had never seen him before, but still it 
struck me that he had been in the house on more than one occasion.” 

“ What reason had you for coming to this conclusion ?”— “ About a month 
ago my mistress was unwell, and very late at night she sent me out to get 
her some laudanum, which she said always relieved her pain. This was 
between one and two in the morning ; and it was a long time before I could 
procure what she wanted. When I returned she let me in on my knocking, 
and took the bottle from me, desiring me to go to bed directly. That night 
I certainly thought I heard voices in the house ; but should perhaps have 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


81 


forgotten all about it, had not old Master Carwin, who lives next door, asked 
me the next morning who it was that had been knocking so loud at our 
door ; and from his account I learned, that first one man in a cloak, and 
then two cavaliers on horseback, had been to the house while I was away. 
And since that night some one has come to the house several times — as 
often as three or four times— and he always announced his being at the 
door by a peculiar knock, which my mistress, on hearing, answered herself 
The stranger, of whom I have been speaking, came with the same knock, 
and I have no doubt that it was only owing to my mistress being engaged 
with the count De Mara that she suffered me to open the door. 1 ’ 

“ Having explained this, be so good as to return to the further particulars 
of the nignt in question.” — “The more I thought about the stranger up 
stairs, the more mysterious he appeared ; and, as my curiosity was excited, 
I determined to creep up quietly, and listen to what they were talking about. 
To my great surprise, I found that the stranger was no longer in the room 
into which I had shown him, for I heard his voice, and that of my mistress, 
proceeding from her own bed-room, which was the furthest room of the two 
from the kitchen where I slept. As soon as I got my head level with the 
landing-place, I laid it along the boards, so as to get my ear as near to the 
crevice between the door and the floor as I could.” 

“ And now tell us what you overheard ; and be careful to preserve tne 
words as accurately as your memory will serve.” — “ The first I heard was 
the stranger saying something which ended with ‘ Then he was in the house 
when I came V My mistress replied, but the answer was in too low a tone 
for me to form any connexion between the few words I caught. The next 
sentence of the stranger I heard entire : it was, ‘ Mark this, little Deboos ; 
I will myself seek an interview with him.’ This seemed to make my mis- 
tress angry, for she raised her voice, and I could hear her say, ‘ Beware how 
you take such a step,’ and then the sound fell again ; but I think what she 
added was to the purport that sooner than that she would disclose all, which 
I heard her continue with the w ords, * though I myself should sink beneath 
the ruins.’” 

“ Did you overhear your mistress call the stranger by any name ; or have 
you any reason to conjecture what his name may be ?”— Not the slightest. 
My mistress never alluded to his visits in her conversation with me ; and I 
certainly heard nothing that could inform me on that point.” 

“ Did you hear nothing further “ Nothing ; for my position was very 
uncomfortable ; besides which, the thought struck me, that if I stepped on 
the landing, and looked through the key-hole, I might perhaps be able to 
see what they were about, as well as hear better.” 

“ And did you not do so?” — “I attempted it; but in so doing trod una- 
wares on a brush that was lying on the floor: — the consequence was, that 
the bristles of the brush gave way beneath my weight, and the handle, 
which was round, gave a sudden turn, by which I was thrown with some 
violence against the door. In a moment my mistress opened it, and, l sup- 
pose, guessed the whole, for she looked fearfully angry ; though perhaps 
that might not have been altogether at me. She, however, ordered me 
down stairs — accompanied me— and, without saying another word, waited 
in the kitchen till I was undressed and in bed.” 

« What further do you know of this melancholy transaction ?” — “I was 
too much frightened to think of going up stairs again, but 1 lay and listened 
with unmoved attention, till at length, almost without knowing it, I fell 

asleep.” . 

“ Then you heard nothing more that night?”— “ There is a thing I should 
like to mention ; but I beg it may be taken with a doubt. The next morn- 
ing when f aw’oke and remembered what had been happening the previous 
night, there w as an impression on my mind that my ear had traced a gurg- 


82 


transfusion: or, the 


ling muffled sound, as a conclusion to the events of the night. But I will 
not say that I really did hear it. One thing that almost makes me think it 
was dreamy and unreal, is, that when I shut my eyes as I lay in bed in the 
morning, the sound had more of reality about it to my imagination. Such 
as it was, however, I describe the sensation, but whether a fact or a dream 
I will not pronounce.” 

“ At what hour in the morning did you get up ?” — “ A little after seven, 
which was later than usual ; and therefore, when I was dressed and about, 
I was surprised to find that my mistress was not stirring, for she was gene- 
rally up the first. I went to her door once or twice to listen, but there was 
no sound. Half an hour slipped away, and 1 began to think she would be 
angry if I did not call her ; and yet 1 thought that the turmoil of the night 
might have wearied her. At length it came to my mind that I would go to 
her door and sing a little Italian air, which she herself had taught me, and 
which had often gladdened her face with a smile.” 

“ And did you do so V’ — “ I was in no great heart for singing, for 1 knew 
that I had done wrong in listening at her door on the previous night, and I 
dreaded her unkind looks, for I knew that would be all the scolding I should 
have. Ah, she was a good mistress to me, and though her heart was heavy 
all day long, I never was made to bear the burthen of it. So at length I 
went and sang : — but she did not show by any movement that it reached 
her : — and then I opened the door softly to listen the better. Still no move- 
ment ; not even a breath to break the silence it was so hush, that if it 
had not been for the daylight, I should have thought I had mistaken the 
hour. Next I stole my head into the room that I might see. I did see; 
and I thought it would go hard with me to draw another breath. Oh, the 
goodness, it was such a sight ! She was stretched across the bed, clothed 
as the night before, and round her lay the bed-things, rumpled and tossed, 
as if a great struggle had been held upon them. But it was her face that 
took the gaze. Her eyes were wide open, and pushed forward, as though 
looking for him who had done this thing ; and as I stood there aghast and 
without action, I almost thought that her lips moved, as if calling for re- 
venge. Oh, sirs, she was a good mistress ; and here was a sight!” 

[At the conclusion of her evidence the witness, apparently overcome by 
her recollection of the scene, fainted, and was taken out of court.] 

To be brief with this painful business. The rest of the document goes 
to show that a surgeon examined the body, and found on the throat marks 
of strangulation sufficient to show the way in which the poor creature was 
put to death : the impress of a finger and thumb on the neck were deeply 
visible, and had been so forcibly thrust into the flesh as to leave a portion 
of the dirt ; which corroborated the statement of Maud Rinvcin, when she 
said, “ And a very dirty hand it was” that came from under the cloak. 
The whole of the police of Geneva, it also appeared, had been in motion 
to discover the supposed assassin ; but though several were apprehended, 
there was nothing brought against any sufficient to fix the charge upon 
them. ° 1 

From a memorandum inserted at the foot of the document, it would 
appear that on the conclusion of this evidence the court was cleared, and a 
consultation took place among the syndics as to the fit course to be pursued ; 
and the following is the result For the committal of Maud Rinvein to 
prison, 2 r for her dismissal on recognisances for attendance from week to 
week to identify, should any be apprehended on suspicion, 7 : on which 
(Count De Mara consenting to be bondsman for the said Maud Rinvein) 
ail the witnesses were discharged from present attendance.” 


ORPHANS OF UN WALDEN* 


CHAPTER XIV. 

An image was before mine eyes ; there was silence, and I heard a voice.— Job. 

Then after many tears and sorrows spent, 

She dear besought the prince of remedy ; 

Who thereto did with ready will consent, 

And well performed, as shall appear by his event. 

The Faeky Qoeewe. 

The first anxious task which the Count de Mara had to undergo was 
to break the information of Deboos’ death to the Orphans, and to shape it 
in such a manner that they should not feel it necessary to ask for more par- 
ticulars than he felt disposed to give ; for he could not doubt that if Made- 
line’s suspicions were once roused, there would be no pause in her activity 
till she should trace the fictitious Madame Lalande to be the hapless Madame 
Deboos, and thus probe one of the chief mysteries of De Mara’s scheme. 

The fear that this undesired event might happen instilled the proper re- 
quisite of horror into the subtle nobleman’s countenance ; so that when he 
waited on Madeline to acquaint her with the loss she had sustained, he 
was able, without doing violence to his nature, to dress out his face with 
the necessary habiliments of wo, and to subdue his tone to that melan- 
choly cadence which is at or.ee the companion and the indicator of a heavy 
heart. 

The grief which the orphans felt at the announcement thus made by 
I Do Mara was real and unaffected ; but the degree in which each enter- 
tained it differed. Madeline, though she fiad felt full respect for the char- 
* acter of one who had been her deceased mother’s chosen friend, did not 
feel a loss that came home directly to her own bosom and left a blank in 
her heart. There were affection and respect and esteem in her sentiments 
towards Deboos, but sympathy for the most part was wanting. But to 
Albert the loss was that of a companion. The manner in which De Mara 
! monopolized the attention of his sister had forced him upon Deboos till he 
had in a manner moulded her to a fashion of his own, and, loving her him- 
I self, compelled her to love him in return. The death of this female, there- 
fore, was robbing Albert of a large portion of his little store of affections, 
and he felt it proportionally severely. He had long thought how happy 
he should be, could he find a friend awake to the motions of his soul : he 
met Deboos, and (right or w'rong) conceived that in her that friend was 
found. No wonder, then, that he drooped at being deprived of a compan- 
ion for whom he had long been eager, and who seemed to have been 
only bestow'ed to be taken away again at the moment that her value was 
just beginning to be appreciated. 

As far as the count’s apprehensions were concerned, however, the scene 
passed oft’ to his heart’s content. The story that he told w as received with 
sorrow, but without suspicion ; and it was readily acceded to his represen- 
tations that the care of her funeral should be left to him to discharge. He 
explained that the suddenness of the disease (though he dropped no hint 
of the pregnant suspicions of foul play that appeared from the circum- 
stances of her death) had placed the corpse in a manner within the scope 
of the law% and that it would therefore necessarily be unpleasant for the 
orphans to visit the remains of their late friend. De Mara’s wisdom and 
prudence were acknowledged ; and the w hole arrangement was left in his 
hands, with many thanks for his friendly intervention. 


84 


TRANSFUSION .* OR, THE 


This piece of good fortune was speedily followed by another, and De 
Mara began to think that the Fates were on his side, and fighting for him. 
One of the chief anxieties he had had, and that which had induced him to 
be so peremptory with Deboos for the removal of his mistress from Gene- . 
va, was his apprehension of the return of the real Madame Lalande from 
Genoa, and some unlucky coincidence bringing her and Madeline together. 
On the day on which he announced the death of Deboos to the orphans, 
however, he received a letter from a friend at Genoa, who had been em- 
ployed to watch the motions of Madame Lalande, announcing that that 
lady had been seized by a dangerous fever— that her life was despaired of, 
— and that even in the event of her getting the better of the attack, it 
would leave her in such a weak state as to render her utterly unfit to un- I 
dertake so long a journey as that from Genoa to Geneva for some months. 
This information was in the highest degree gratifying to the count, for it 
allowed him to abandon a scheme which he had always held to be danger- ! 
ous, and which had become doubly so since the death of his coadjutrix ; 
and he felt free to return to the prosecution of his former arrangements 
with redoubled energy and vigour. 

But here, as before, he still found Albert to be his stumbling-block ; and i 
having, as he believed, disposed of all other difficulties in his way, he de- i 
termined to set himself to work in right earnest to rid himself of this 
breaker a-head, that was perpetually thwarting the navigation of his bark 
of adventure. 

As the time is now arrived when Albert’s motions are to become a prin - 1 
cipal feature in the events that belong to this history of the Orphans ofi 
Unwalden, it may be as well to develope his character more particularly i 
than heretofore, in order that the result which it produced may be more 
satisfactorily comprehended. It has been observed that Albert’s virtues 
were rather of a passive than an active description— that there was more i 
of endurance than execution about his character: — but this is to be under- 
stood with an exception. That he had more of the energy of patience, 
than of performance, is true ; but it was from the peculiar circumstances j 
of his life that this had taken its origin ; and if he had never displayed 
more determined features of action, it was because the opportunity for their j 
being evinced had never presented itself, and not that he was without their 
germs in the constitution of his mind. Hitherto he had been in years little 
more than a boy ; and the faithful kindness and solicitude with which he [j 
had been tended by his mother and sister had rendered him still more help- ! 
less, or rather still less active on his own account than he would otherwise \ 
have been. But his mother — the prime originator and chief conductor of 
those tendernesses that had surrounded his walk through life, as the young 
sapling is swathed in moss to protect it from the adverse heavens— was 
dead ; and his sister — the child of thoughtlessness, the wayward creature 
of a thousand hurricanes of passion — had unwillingly gradually weaned I 
him from those placidities which enervated while they gratified. Since his 
arrival at Geneva he had taken his first lesson in thinking for himself. 
Self-t aught, he was liable to form wrong judgments ; but at airevents he had 
advanced the first step towards plumbing the depths of human character; 
and taking the Count de Mara and the fictitious Madame Lalande for his 
ground- work, he had mapped out for himself a chart of the human mind. 

Perhaps he might have stopped here ; but the course of events pressed 
hard upon him, and forced him into the current, as in a mountain stream 
we sometimes see a floating fragment of wood that has been long snugly 
ensconced in the bay of an eddy, urged from its station, and driven into the 
whirl of waters by the unexpected accession of a diverted rivulet, which, 
after swooping in a bend of its own fashioning, returns its borrowed sources 
to the parent stream. 


ORPHANS OF UN WALDEN. 


85 


The first of these events was the death of Deboos. He had found a com- 
panion but to lose her ; and again, after a temporary range, his mind was 
driven to sojourn with itself, and be its own keeper. For a few days it was 
able to bear its own company ; but that capability quickly died away, and 
it grew weary of the solitary state in which it sat. The soul of Albert pined 
for an associate— ay, a thousand times more than it had ever pined before 
his companionship with Dcboos had awakened it to the full sense of social 
enjoyment. He was somewhat in the state of Crusoe, who for four-and- 
tvventy years submitted with a better grace to the solitary existence of his 
island life, than he could muster when after that lapse a wrecked ship showed 
him how near a prospect there had been of his having a mate ; — in the lan- 
guage of that outcast from the world, he might have exclaimed — “Oh! 
that there had been but one or two, nay, or but one soul saved out of the 
ship, to have escaped to me, that I might but have one companion, one 
fellow-creature to have spoken to me, and to have conversed with !” While, 
in the words of Defoe, the historian of our poor Albert may moralize — 
“ There are some secret moving springs in the affections ; which, when they 
are set a-going by some object in view — or be it some object, though not in 
view, yet rendered present to the mind by the power of imagination — whose 
motion carries out the soul by its impetuosity to such violent eager embra- 
cings of the object, that the absence of it is insupportable.” 

The outward and visible signs of this movement of Albert’s mind were 
in the first instance a sort of fitful reverie, that took possession of him for 
the first few days after De Mara’s announcement to the orphans of the death 
of Deboos, but which after that period gradually developed itself in a wild 
uneasiness of manner, continually seeking the presence and observation of 
Madeline. As long as the first exhibition lasted, the count was well pleased 
with the consequences of the feeling produced by the death of Deboos : but 
when the first gave way to the second, and he found that it was restlessly 
impelling Albert to a demand on the attention of his sister, the nobleman 
began to see that if he would possess Madeline’s society without the incum- 
brance of her brother, it was necessary to take immediate and peremptory 
steps to employ the youth in some new pursuit, that should distract his 
mind from its present determination. Not only was there in Albert’s man- 
ner an immediate annoyance to his schemes, but, still worse, there was 
every reason to dread that if suffered to continue, it would speedily undergo 
another change, and assume a still more disagreeable importunity. 

These points determining the count as to the course it was necessary for 
him to take, all that remained was to invent the means that, should best 
enable him to give vigour and success to that course. Long did he delibe- 
rate on this subject, and various were the projects that suggested themselves 
to his fertile brain ; and he fonnd full opportunity of appreciating the diffi- 
culties that occur to a man who undertakes to find employment for a being 
whom Nature has deprived of one of his most valuable rights. 

While these thoughts were continually engaging the attention of De 
Mara, it happened that an eminent physician, who had made all Bologna 
resound with the wonder of his cures and the profoundness of his know- 
ledge, came to sojourn for awhile at Geneva ; and amongst his letters of 
introduction was one to the Signor Maravelli, with whom our reader has 
already formed an acquaintance at the road-side inn, and who since that 
event has been left to feast in unrnentioned solitude on the wager that 
ought to have been paid to him by the count. It was at Maravelli's house 
that De Mara and the celebrated Doctor Valdi were introduced to one 
another. 

It was not often that De Mara troubled this friend, or the others that 
formed his cortege on that day of his first introduction to Madeline, with a 
visit : his attendance on his mistress was too constant, and their boon com- 
50—8 


S6 


transfusion: or, the 


panion jests on his pursuit were too unwelcome, to induce him to present 
himself among them very frequently; nor would he have broken through 
his general feeling on this occasion, but that the same Genoese friend who 
had written to apprise him of the state of the real Madame Lalande had 
made him acquainted with the circumstance of Doctor Yaldi having at- 
tended her daring his stay in that city, arid that it was to him chiefly that 
she owed the baffling of the fever so far as to save her life, though all his 
skill could not restore her to immediate health. When, therefore, the no- 
bleman heard by chance from Altoz, with whom he still kept up a more 
constant intercouise than with the other members of his former knot of 
companions, that Yaldi was a visiter at Maravelli’s house, he felt a curiosity 
to have a personal interview with the physician, in order that he might 
learn from his own lips the probabilities as to the period of her entire recov- 
ery and her expected return to Geneva. 

The introduction of Madame Lalande’s name led Yaldi into an account j 
of the disease with which she had been attacked, and he was induced by 
the willing ear which his auditory lent to branch still farther out, and detail 
several curious cases that had come within his practice. He had justi 
finished in a tone of honourable self-satisfaction the account of one extraor- 
dinary instance of the restoration of a person’s sight by means of a novel 
invention of his own, when some one of the party observed, that from the j 


pride which Doctor Yaldi seemed to take in stating that care, he presumed 
that it was the one which, even in the course of his long experience and 


* v in HU 

success, had cost him most anxiety, and had afforded him most gratification. 
w I cannot entirely admit that,” said Yaldi in reply : “ as to the anxiety 


I experienced, you may perhaps be right ; for no man, however skilful, can 
leddle with so delicate an organ as the eye without feeling a nervous soli- 


meddle with so delicate an organ y 

eitude, unless he be more or less than man. But of all the operations 1 ever 
undertook, that for which I felt the most triumph at my success, was one 
which I had to perform on a child that had been born deaf, and whose case 
had been under the consideration of the most eminent men of Paris.” 

The count started as if a sudden thought had been afforded to him by the 
speech of the professor, and, in conjunction with others of the company, 
expressed a d: sire to hear the particulars of the case. 

“ On examining my patient,” said the physician, “ I was soon convinced 
that the seat of his disease, or deprivation of sense, was situated deep in the 
defective organ, and that whatever operation I might undertake must be 
equally deep, and consequently endangering to the internal structure of 
the head. This was of course fully stated to the parents of the child 
though I at the same time added, that if they thought it light to undergo a 
great risk for a great advantage, I would not shrink from Fhe task. They 
were pleased after due deliberation to accept my offer, and I accordingly 
prepared myself for the operation. I will not trouble your unscientific ears 
with a tedious detail of the construction of the parts, or of the instruments 
I was in consequence led to invent, and use on the occasion. Certain it is 
that they cost me more thought and trouble than I had ever spent on any 
one case before in the whole course of my life : but they enabled me to 
perform my undertaking successfully, and the child is now living with its 

faculty of hearing completely restored-and so perfect, that I feel it to be 
no presumption, when I say that it will remain as long as any of the other 
natural functions of the patient may endure.” J 

DeMara made no remark on what he had heard, but he did not think 
the less of it ; and as he early withdrew from the party, it afforded Iris 
mmd matter of debate for the rest of the evening. The more he considered 
the matter, the more it seemed to him that he had met with an expedient 
suited in the highest degree to his purpose. That Yaldi’s skill was suffi- 
cient to restore to Albert his lost sense of hearing he would not doubt ; or 


ORPHANS OF UN WALDEN. 


87 


81 if he did, he intended to take care that no one else of the parties in- 
terested should have a scruple on that head ; and then, if it should 
unfortunately happen that the operation proved fatal, why no one was 
i: to blame, and Albert’s interference would be at an end more effectually 
t than any other method could accomplish. On the other hand, supposing 
the operator turned out successful, and Albert as to his senses was made 
a perfect man, the best foresight the count could give to the change led him 
to believe that it would be the means of removing that pdrtion of Albert’s 
conduct which most annoyed him. It was true that a restored sense of 
hearing would act against his interests, so far as it would enable the 
youth to take part in future in any conversation De Mara might have with 
the orphans ; but, on the opposite, it was to be hoped that the new and 
unexpected enjoyment which Albert would possess, W’ould lead him to a 
greater range and scope than he had heretofore undertaken, and, by en- 
gaging him in fresh pursuits, relieve the lover and his mistress from that 
continual attendance on his part, which was a perpetual stumbling-block 
to the progress of the other. An additional motive with the count to re- 
commend this undertaking to the orphans was, that though the subject of 
Albert’s intrusion had had possession of his mind for days, he had not been 
able to suggest to himselfa plan sufficiently feasible to get rid of the youth’s 
observations without awakening the suspicions of the sister : so that this 
newly devised arrangement, independently of its own intrinsic recommen- 
dations, presented itself in the shape of a dernibre ressource, beyond which 
ail was uncertainty and dilemma. 

The result of these self-deliberations of De Mara was, that on the fol- 
lowing morning he broke his design both to the orphans and to the learned 
physician, who had suggested the first thought to his scheming mind. 

With respect to the former party, his success was sufficient to cany him 
on in the hopes he had formed ; — the chief opposition that he met with was 
from Albert himself. There must have been a strange sort of structure in 
the mind of the youth, for among all his reveries — and his day-dream list 
contained not a few — that of being blessed with hearing had never entered 
his imagination ; and the time for proposing it to him was inopportune — 
not that he saw into the deep-concerted intention of its originator, but be- 
cause since the decease of Deboos his mind had been so entirely occupied 
with picturing how he might again be “.as infinite as all’’ to his sister, that 
he could not look with favour on any plan which, not appearing on its face 
to have any thing in it which should forward that idea, was in the compari- 
son “ blank as nothing.” But whatever coldness Albert might on this account 
entertain towards the suggestion of De Mara was more than made up by 
the irresistible eagerness with which his sister entered into it. How often 
had she wept over the misfortune of her brother I How r often had she de- 
plored that Nature, bounteous in all other respects, had, as if in mockery 
of her own most excellent workmanship, suffered a flaw which blemished 
the whole structure* How often had she thought what worlds she would 
give — what sacrifices site would make — what joy unutterable she would 
feel, could some miracle (for nought else had over presented itself to her 
wn instructed mind) render that structure perfect, and give her brother that 
enjoyment which she had felt when she hoard the birds carol high in the 
vast cerulean, the . solemn organ peal a heaven-taught symphony, or the 
voice of man discourse in tpnes such as struck the sense of hearing as the 
true music of the soul. To whatever, therefore, Albert objected, her an- 
swer was ready and overflowing. She conjured him by the love he had 
ever entertained towards her — by the memory of their dead mother, to 
whom she owed the duty of seeking for him every happiness and advan - 
tage — by the judgment to which he had ever ceded, and which had always 
been exercised with most care for his sake — by these and a thousand other 


83 


transfusion: or, the 


sisterly aves she conjured him to submit to this operation. She wept — she 
prayed — she smiled — she entreated — and she conquered. 

When De Mara mentioned the subject to Dr. Yaldi, the physician looked 
grave. It was true that he had once succeeded in this dangerous opera- 
tion ; and it was equally true, that his conscience and his heart led him to 
undertake all, however perilous, for the benefit of his fellow-creatures, i 
But his former patient was a child of eight or nine years of age, while this 
new subject for his skill had arrived at his seventeeth year ; and it was a I 
matter for serious consideration whether those fine parts, which could only ' 
be meddled with in a child under great peril and hazard, were not become, j 
in an adolescent, so rigid and determined as to render the risk almost eer- j 
tainly fatal to life. De Mara, to whom these apprehensions were clearly 
stated, had gone too far, and succeeded too well with the more interested 
parties, to allow the professor’s objections to go unanswered. He repre- 
sented to him that points of difficulty, which ought to have great weight in 
a first attempt, were much palliated and subdued in the repetition of an 
operation : in the case of the first patient, it was a new and untried instru- 
ment that had to be taken in hand, which, however theoretically correct, 
naturally awakened in the operator’s mind great anxiety as to the practical 
result. All that anxiety might now fairly be said to have evaporated ; and, 
therefore, when the professor spoke of dangers and perils, it was worth 
considering whether he was not. dealing with a case according to the im- 
pressions he had received in the first instance, without giving due allow- 
ance to the successful groundwork on which he had to build this second , 
effort. At all events, on the physician’s own principles of duty and risk- 
taking. he was bound to make the attempt, and it would be time enough 
to draw back from the undertaking when he found that the nature of the 
operation was actually leading him into danger, of which his acknowledged 
skill and judgment could not fail to apprise him before it was too late to 
recede. 

I do not pretend to have set down all the arguments that were used, 
either on the one side or the other during this debate. It is sufficient to 
show, by the leading points, the spirit in which the matter was discussed, 
and then add the result — which was, that Dr. Yaldi undertook to attempt 
the operation on the assurance of the count that all the difficulties and 
hazards of the thing should be fully explained to the patient. 

This explanation De Mara willingly undertook to make; indeed, it was 
essential to him that all that had passed between the parties should take 
place through his intervention, and that the orphans should see as little of 
Valdi as possible ; for De Mara was not without apprehensions that if anv 
freedom of conversation took place between Madeline and the physician, 
the name of Lalande might possibly be mentioned ; and, though it might 
easily be supposed that there was a Madame Lalande residing at Genoa, 
as well as the one residing at Geneva, he did not know so exactly how 
much Valdi knew of his Genoese patient’s history as to be willing to risk 
such a mention of names unnecessarily ; besides which in making Valdi’s 
explanation to the orphans, the count took care to soften the improbabili- 
ties of the danger, and magnify those of the success, so as to leave the case 
pretty much in the same position as that in which he had originally placed 
it before them— a thing he could not have hoped for, if he had allowed the 
professor to be his own spokesman. 

In accordance with De Mara’s arrangements, it was settled that the 
operation should be performed at his lodgings, whither he was to attend 
Albert, as the latter declared he could never tranquilly undergo the per- 
formance if his sister was either in the room, or so near as to force her 
image upon his mind. But, though Madeline appeared to yield this point 
to the decision of the patient, it was only in seeming, for her feelings were 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


89 


so involved in what was about to take place, that she entered into a secret 
negotiation with the count that accommodation should be afforded her in 
the adjoining apartment to that in which the scene was to take place, in 
order that she might be sufficiently near to be called instantly on the suc- 
cess or failure of the undertaking becoming apparent. 

The important morning arrived, and Albeit and De Mara proceeded to 
the apartments of the latter, Madeline taking a tranquil leave of them in 
the assurance that, in a very few minutes, she would again be secretly, but 
surely, by the side of her brother, or, at least, sufficently close to him to be 
all but a party to the minutiae of the scene. When the patient and his con- 
ductor arrived at their destination, they found the professor already pre- 
pared for their reception ; and as Albert took his first glance at the man on 
whose skill and ability so much of his future fate rested, there went a move- 
ment of gratification through his mind at being consigned to the care of 
one whose benevolent eye, dignified countenance, and sobriety of expres- 
sion, gave token of a happy union of philanthropy, knowledge, and steadi- 
ness of purpose. The youth almost wished that he had suffered Madeline 
to accompany him, that she also might be cheered by gazing on the benign 
features of a man, who, in her belief, was destined to be the introducer of 
complete organization to her brother’s sensory. 

As this was one of the cases in which Valdi was unable, owing to the 
physical defect of Albert, to pursue his usual course of endeavouring, in 
the first instance, to alleviate the mind of the patient before he proceeded 
to that which called for his labours, a lew minutes only w ere suffered to 
elapse before he proceeded to that examination which foreruns the chirur- 
ger’s judgment on each individual case. A short investigation w r as suffi- 
cient to assure him that the case w r as similar to that which, by its recital, 
had introduced him to the notice of De Mara; and, feeling that he had 
already said every thing to the friend of the patient that caution dictated, 
he proceeded to arrange his instruments for the undertaking. 

While this was doing, a deep silence reigned through the apartment. 
Albert, with patience and resolution on his brow r , sat motionless in the chair 
that had been prepared for him, while the count and a female whose pre- 
sence had been engaged in case her assistance should be required, stood in 
watchful anxiety, gazing on the various strangely moulded instruments 
that the anatomist handled with a facility and unconcern wondrous, and 
almost appalling to unscientific eyes. Silence — all was silence, save when 
some delicately fashioned machine clinked against its fellow as they passed 
in survey under the dextrous hand and eye of Valdi, and once— save once, 
when the quick ear of the count detected a rapid, fairy-like, but nervous 
footfall stealing over the stairs, and ending in the gentle creaking of a door. 

At length the operator pronounced his apparatus to be ready. 

But w'hose footsteps was that so hasty and so anxious ? — It was Made- 
line’s, as she stole to the corner that had been assigned her. How stealthy 
is care — how strangely tacit in all its attributes ! Had her step been more 
resounding than the elephant’s as he ramps along the scorching plains of 
Asia — had the faint sigh, half-suppressed and half-uttered, that forced its 
way through her lips, been more turbulent than the angry roar of Afric’s 
fiercest lion, he, to whom both her silence and her sighs were dedicated, 
w r ould have been equally unconscious of her vicinity. The one feeling of 
her soul w’as so predominant, that memory played her false, and allowed 
her to forget the individual peculiarities of him for whom the feeling existed. 

She is hidden in her solitary station: she has but one attitude — that ot 
the profoundest listening : she has but one gaze — that towards the chamber 
where the scene in w'hich her soul is present is enacting: feet fixed, eyes 
unmoved, nostrils dilated, lips compressed — all show the one purpose of 
her spirit : and, but for the heavy breath that, against her w ill, forces its way 
8 * 


90 


transfusion: or, the 


into air and utterance, he, who should gaze upon her, might believe that she 
was one — the most beautiful — of the daughters of that famous city of the 
dead, where every expression of the soul has its statue, and the sudden- 
ness of the change has modelled nature in all her universality of shapes. 

But why does she hear no sound ? Why is there no stir in the chamber 
— which to her, at that moment, is all the world ? Has she lost her faculty ? 
Is she Albert, and Albert she; and is hearing no longer a sense belonging 
to her ? Not a sound ! not a murmur ! not a whisper ! not even the whis- 
per of a whisper whereon to found the dream of one to her awakened and 
agitated mind ! 

Each moment becomes more unbearable, and she has that within her 
which would hurry her like a whirlwind to the spot where her soul dwells. 
But there is a speli upon her;— she dare not — she cannot break the weight 
of silence that presses her down, and institutes a want of motion over each 
limb and action of her frame. Could she but hear a whisper, she would 
go — the moving of a chair, or the opening of a window, would unchain 
her from her attitude ; but the grave was never more silent, or vacuum 
more motionless, than that which imbeds her in the lap of torture. 

There is a moment beyond which the mind cannot endure the horror of 
suspense ;— that moment is arrived with Madeline — her soul sickens for 
want of food : it has been panting and yearning for some guidance to in- 
struct it to a conclusion of what the next room beholds. Food there is 
none, and the wearied spirit can no longer hold out against the faintness 
and atrophy that is upon it. A moment, and she sinks to earth. 

But a sound— a strange, stirring, spirit-stirring sound is heard ;— the 
long-looked-for nourishment is come. Is it too late ?— a moment must 
decide. It hurries over her soul, which may be pictured as the sail that 
impels the graceful structure of her body. For an instant the fabric stoops, 
as the long hull of the ship gives way when first she feels her sails filling 
with the unexpected gale ; but, as with that hull, the impression is but 
momentary. She rights— she rights— Madeline is herself! and another 
moment conveys her to the chamber where Albert’s fate has been decided. 

A wondrous sight awaits her there. She enters tottering to the middle 
of the apartment ; but her eye is steady— most steady, fixed and resolute— 
for no one but her brother does it see. There is a strange hue over his 
countenance — a strange light gleaming in his eyes — strange but gentle 
drops of blood trickle from his ears, which contract and expand as if under 
the movements of some new dilation of the oro-an. 

“ Albert— my brother !” cried the wonder-stricken girl, “ what mean 
these involuntary movements?” 

“ Can be said he ; “ oh, may it indeed be !— My sister speaks, and 
I am able to track her soft, silky sounds stealing on some new sensation 
within my brain: it is human music, and tells me I am no longer an out- 
cast from my fellows of the creation !” 

Before a moment elapsed, the Orphans of Unwalden were fast locked in 
each other’s arms ; and Albert declared a thousand times that day, that 
if aught coti Id have enhanced his joy at having his faculties established in 
their full rights, it was that the first information of that establishment was 
told in the sweet tones of his sister’s voice. 


ORPHANS OF UNWAI.DEN. 


91 


CHAPTER XV. 

But soon the eyes rendered the ears their right ; 

For such strange harmony he seem’d to hear, 

That all his senses flock’d into his ear, 

And every faculty wish’d to be seated there. — Spenser. 

I know him for a villain ; one that hath lost 

All feeling of humanity — one that hates 

Goodness in others ’cause he’s ill himself. — Massinger. 

Now, indeed, it seemed as if Albert’s cup of joy was full as heart could 
wish. He no longer sat in mournful silence among the gay of spirit, and 
looked wistfully on their curling lips and dimpling cheeks, which told him 
they were pushing mirth to its height, and enjoying its mazy rounds : no 
longer an interloper, he was one of the party, and had his share in ^ 

Quips and cranks, and wanton wiles, 

Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles, 

Such as hang on Hebe’s cheek, 

And love to live in dimple sleek ; 

Sport that wrinkled Care derides, 

And Laughter holding both his sides. 

His sensations were those of another being, or rather of the same being 
transported into an entirely new scene of action. His heart, night ana 
day, bounded within him for excess of joy ; and, in the plenitude of his 
delight, sleep was too tame an attendant to be allowed to touch his eyelids 
with her forgetful salve. When the shades of night were on the earth, and 
others addressed themselves to slumber, Albert would throw himself care- 
lessly on his couch, and scan, with wakeful fancy, his soul’s one thought, 
imbibing fresh draughts of pleasure from the mere consideration of the 
mighty change that one half hour had produced within him. 

“ Oh, my new-gained sense !” thus would he commune with himself ; 
“ how cheaply prized till found ! how dearly valued now I know' thy ex- 
cellence ! fond fool that I w'as to dream — to idly dream that I wa9 made 
acquainted with the world’s delights ; w'hen the sweetest, the tenderest, 
and the heartiest of its pleasures were beyond my apprehension ! In my 
ignorance fain would I have turned philosopher, and formed an abstract 
picture of what this faculty was capable of presenting. How poor the 
image, how feeble the portraiture 1 Oh, how unlike the truth was the 
warmest painting of my soul ! With what foolish fancy did I make it 
this or that, something I could touch — something I could taste— something 
I could see — or mixture undefined of all this triad, but no more like this 
God-appointed sense of hearing than the foul-shaped block of the savage 
resembles the awful presence of a world’s Creator. Already 1 feel the 
greatness of my change — now I stand a man ; then I lay couchant, but a 
senseless moveable, with no ear — no capacity for soft sounds, that now 
come breathing over me, as fairy’s whisper to the moonlight of a summer 
eve. Methought I knew my sister, and loved her ; but oh, how poor was 
my estimate of her beauties ! Her soul-breathing eye I could see ; her 
grace-abounding steps I could watch ; her soft and living skin, more de- 
licate than dew that has kissed the rose, I could touch, and I loved her. 


TRANSFUSION I OR, THE 


n 

But what is my feeling now that. I can add to all these a perception of her 
chiefest excellence ? What are her eye, her steps, or her fair tapering 
hand, to her voice, that comes like gentle drops of manna on my ear, and 
even, when gone, leaves a lingering vibration behind that still holds pos- 
session of my very brain ! Yes, I did but love her then; now my whole 
existence adores her ; my whole faculties, and I speak it not profanely, 
are prone to worship her! De Mara, too, how wrongly have I judged 
him ! His look, that seemed to threaten and forbid ; and his carriage, 
that pained me by its haughty bearing, are forgotten in the accents of his 
manly voice; each tone that comes from him bears dignity in its impress ; 
and nature, as well as birth, in the tongue of eloquence she has bestowed, 
seems to have intended to ennoble him. I will learn to think better of 
this man, for never could sounds of such persuasion come from a heart that 
was naught.” 

Such were the expressions in which Albert indulged in the fulness of his 
joy ; but the delight of Madeline was scarcely less than his own. It 
seemed as if she had now, for the first time, a real brother given to her ; 
and she felt that, in persuading him to submit to this happy operation, she 
had in some degree made up the loss he had sustained through her quar- 
rel with Seaton. She sat hour after hour proving his new-born sense, and 
weened that she could never tire in marking the progress of its apprehension. 

Even De Mara was interested in the scene, which had succeeded almost 
beyond his hopes. He had never wished any positive mischief to the 
youth : all he had desired was to render him a nonentity in the prosecu- 
tion of his suit with the sister. The more he considered the probable 
results of this new-found faculty, the more he thought it likely it would 
lead the possessor into a new course of thought and a fresh train of ac- 
tion ; and, therefore, it was nowise contrary to his nature that he should 
rejoice in the result that had been brought about, and attend to its earlier 
developement with a feeling of interest. 

A debate just at this time occurred between De Mara and his com- 
panions, as to the comparative pretensions of music and eloquence to influ- 
ence the heart of man. Madeline and Albert were present ; De Mara 
was the champion of eloquence. At length Maravelli, who had taken the 
opposite side, abruptly exclaimed — “Well, well, I will not dispute with 
you any longer, but the result will prove that I am right. There is a 
grand concert to be given this evening. Let us adjourn to it, and you 
shall soon see how its magic sounds will attract Albert within its influ- 
ence.” 

“ 1 have no objection to that,” cried De Mara ; “ and, after all, it is the 
only fair way of putting the question with respect to the individual. Only 
remember, if it should turn out that Albert’s present vacuum is supplied 
by music, I by no means allow that it proves its superiority over elo- 
quence. 

One subject only will one genius fit. 

And, therefore, though our young friend may be satisfied with music, still 
the majority would yield the palm to eloquence and poetry. At all events, 
1 shall rejoice at the trial, and still more shall I rejoice if the experiment 
answers the proposed effect ; for I long to see his active and zealous mind 
suited with a pursuit that shall pour into it all those wonderful delights 
which so peculiarly belong to the intellectual nature of man.” 

“ And I too shall rejoice beyond expression,” cried the affectionate 
sister; “I want to see my Albert under music’s influence ; for I cannot 
doubt, but that a soul so tender, so affectionate, and so overflowing with 
nature’s purest kindliness, will find in the soft tones of harmony the food 
for which it pines.” 


ORPHANS OP UNWALDEN. 


93 


Albert, who had listened with the deepest attention to all that had 
passed, likewise joined in the proposition : the chevalier, however, seemed 
desirous of carrying his triumph over Maravelli still further, but he was 
interrupted by Madeline, 

“ Come,” cried ‘she, “ if you are not afraid of refutation, it is time for 
you to drop your theory, that we may give practice an opportunity of 
illustration. The church has long since chimed six, and we shall be too 
late for the concert if we do not break up this learned conclave and adjourn 
to the assembly-rooms.” 

The hint was received in good part by the company, and every body 
rose to make themselves ready for the movement. Little preparation was 
sufficient ; and as the distance was but short, and the night fine, it was 
agreed to walk. Each had a companion save Albert — the count, ever 
ready to engross to himself the attention of Madeline, placed himself by 
her side, and led the way: Maravelli, Altoz, and Valdi followed, deep in 
conversation, as the former was still unwilling to give up the thread of that 
argument into which he had entered so spiritedly. Each had a companion 
. save Albert ; — but if he was alone, it was a spirit of self-exclusion that in- 
duced it. Huge masses of mental food had been offered to him in the 
course of the conversation that had been carried on, and he wanted the 
opportunity to digest its substance. It was the first time that he had been 
introduced to any thing like the encounter of wits, and the setting of one 
man’s thoughts against another ; and he was, as it were, confounded 
between the conflicting testimony that the one or the other had brought 
forward to support his view of the subject. Nor was this all. His mind 
had been much excited ; — it was natural that it should have been ; for the 
whole of this novelty of situation was deeply involved with the interest 
attaching to his own particular position. It was as though he had been 
their only topic — hi3 feelings — his faculties — his sensations ; and the words 
that had fallen from them had been listened to by him with a correspondent 
attention. 

When, therefore, he found himself released from the quick and rapid 
changes of ideas which their dialogue had presented to his mind, he was 
glad, in mere self-relief, to follow the party at a distance, and aflord his 
intellect a pause. Pause, however, there hardly was : — his movement 
checked the addition of further matter for consideration, but could not 
prevent his reiterating to himself each point and turn of thought that had 
been impressed upon him. It was all a scene of wonder and amazement ; 
and when he reached the concert-room, he could hardly be said to be in a 
less excited state than he was when he quitted his own home. 

But his first glances at the hall of music disappointed him. Maravelli’s 
j enthusiasm, which had painted music as the ambrosia of the gods, had 
I led his new disciple to expect to find in the abode of this heavenly food a 
receptacle suited to so sacred and high-prized an office. He could find no 
j such symbol of sublimity or reality : the room was handsome, lofty, and 
spacious, with an orchestra at one end, and seats at the other ; but it had 
none of that mysterious aspect which his own crude conclusions on the 
Italian’s description had led him to expect. He looked around, and there 
was something wanting what it was, he could not tell; — he was not 
bound to tell, for he had come there to ascertain w'hat that something was, 
not to pourtray that which was a strange and undefined enigma to his 
imagination. 

The first general glance not having satisfied his inquiry, he tried to sin- 
gle out something that would better accord with the present tone of his 
feelings. The place that ought to afford this most amply was the orches- 
tra, and he examined its contents with a minuteness and curiosity, such 
as a Red Indian might be suppossed to have when a watch is placed in his 


94 


transfusion: or, the 


hand for the first time, and he starts back at the idea of his being within 
the reach of some unknown and perhaps poisonous living creature ; or, 
perhaps, in the absence of an alarm so native, he rather resembled Spen- 
ser’s butterfly in his visit to the flower garden. 

There he, arriving, round about doth flie 

From this to that, from one to other border, 

And takes survey with curious busie eye 

Of every flowre and herbe there set in order. 

Still, however, the investigation was unsatisfactory. The shapes of the 
instruments were certainly quaint and uncommon ; but, for the most part, 
that quaintness was rather uncouth than beauteous. He had expected to 
gaze on the delicate and aerial-like condition of a fairy ; and in its place 
found nothing but the crooked and piebald phantasma of a goblin. The 
long and lanky flute, bored with many holes, seemed to him like some 
serpent stiffened in the frost, with each round spot upon his skin made 
more visible by the crisping of the air: the violin, to his fancy, was some 
new model of a fantastic Chinese slipper, with the toe moulded to some 
fresh and unparalleled device : the huge drum was no better than a vast 
and endless roll of covered parchment, too large even for a lawyer’s office ; 
and the clarionet, with its strange and zigzag mouldings, called to his me- 
mory the door-posts ot some dandy burgomaster’s Dutch villa, as he had 
seen them given in old pictures of Holland’s favoured edifices. 

These unsatisfactory glances and strange similitudes, which Albert’s 
active fancy furnished, passed with rapid progress through his mind, and 
it might be that they somewhat damped the ardour of his expectation ; but 
even if they did, the embers of his previous excitement still lay smoulder- 
ing in his brain, and ready to burst forth again in active flame on the first 
disturbance they might receive in their present equivocal state. 

But the time allotted for this survey was but short. The signal for the 
performers to enter the orchestra was given, and they streamed in one after 
the other till the place was filled. A minute after, the leader made his 
appearance, and took his seat on an elevation in the midst of them. There 
was something about the appearance of this person calculated to catch the 
attention. His features wore a strictness and severity of expression, which 
his little twinkling eye would seem to belie ; and there appeared to be about 
his whole behaviour a mockery of staidness, which might have been meant 
for dignity, but which, to the judicious observer, stood a far greater chance 
of being interpreted as an assumption of that characteristic, and not its 
reality. 

A word more about this “ 'Maestro di Capella,” though it makes our story 
halt for a moment. How he ever came to be thrust into the regions of 
music, no one could relate. There, however, he was, with something like 
a reputation in his profession, though, beyond a correct mechanical mode 
of performance on his instrument, he had no one point to recommend him. 
But though the judicious here placed the boundary to his merits, the maestro 
himself was by no means of the same opinion : somebody had once told him, 
early in his career, that he resembled Haydn ; why, Heaven' only knows, 
for the strongest point of resemblance was, that both had noses: but the 
hint was taken, and from that moment he was determined to be, not only 
like Haydn, but equal to Haydn, so that in future ages the names of Haydn 
and Herr Sassenhogt should be mentioned together. He set to work at 
composition. Haydn had had his “ Seasons why should not Sassenhogt 
have his “Climates?” Haydn had delighted all Europe with his “ Sin- 
fonias — his compeer was determined to astound as many with his “ Trom- 
bodrumbolargos,” — a word of his own invention, but not badly suited to 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


05 


express the principal feature of his rival compositions. But it was not only 
in these great results that he would be thought like Haydn : his hair must 
be dressed in the same style, his gait must assume the same carriage, and 
lie had actually paid a Russian Jew eight hundred rubles for a pair of dingy 
paste shoe-buckles, because the fellow, who was “ bearded like the pard,” 
had had the wit to persuade him that they were those which Haydn had 
worn to his dying day. To those who were acquainted with Herr Sassen- 
hogt, all these base metal imitations of something beyond his comprehension 
were mightily annoying ; and the only advantage that they, and the world 
at large, had ever gained by the connexion was, that the maestro, because 
Haydn had done so, insisted on all the performers under him having the 
instruments ready tuned before the company of the evening were admitted ; 
so that they, like the band that had been under the guidance of that im- 
mortal master of harmony, might strike off on the given signal without any 
of those abominable tr— tr — tr— truts (as Tristram Shandy calls them) which 
are ever most offensive “ to ears polite” in music. 

Hark ! ’tis the little tap of the maestro in token of the commence. Albert 
knows not the meaning of the sound, but still it reaches the spirit that was 
lying dormant within him ; which, in its turn, confesses the appeal, and 
begins to be roused from its inactivity. The whole room is hush, as though 
the heart, great mistress of the whole, had commanded silence from the other 
members of the human constitution. Another gentler yet more authorita- 
tive tap succeeds. — They start in one grand crash. 

The very first bar had "its effect upon Albert : with a convulsive grasp his 
hand clenched the seat on which he sat, as though some great exertion of 
animal strength was necessary to keep him in his place. Bar on bar suc- 
ceeds — and the swelling sound, full ol majesty and grace, takes possession 
of all the vacant air. Albert is in ecstacy, but it is that sort of ecstacy 
which seems by its very virtue to threaten to overwhelm the patient ; it is 
too essential for man to endure. 

The spirit of the composition somewhat subsides. Gently, and in sooth- 
ing measure, it seeks to diffuse itself through the soul that a'moment before 
it was taking by storm. The heart of Albert melts within him ; and big 
round tears rush from nature’s sluices down his conscious cheeks. Still 
more and more the measure urges him : he would conceal the deep gobbing 
of his breast, but cannot. 

Again the measure changes ; and again it takes all Albert with it. A 
strange concord of sweet sounds now rushes through the room not the 
bold and overwhelming summons of the first, nor the gentle insidious 
magic of the second, but a mingling of both. 

« The force of nature could no further go ; 

To make a third, she joined the former two.” 

For a while — for a short while, Albert listens to the strain ; but it was 
with a sort of ecstatic agony that must be relieved, or give way before the 
effort. No relief comes. It seems as though the great master, whose 
work it was, had been foretold the purpose to which it would that evening 
be applied, and, vain of his power, had put it forth to the utmost of his 
genius. The youth gasps and pants for want of very breath ; still no 
release from the sweet agony that thralls him ; and then, as if in act of 
mere self-preservation, he rushes from the room he knows not whither. 

Which w-ay he moves, he heeds not. The penetrating sounds he has 
just quitted still vibrate in his ears, and he hurries on as though the swift- 
ness of his motion might serve to cool the transports of his brain. By 
decrees his rhapsody subsides, and he finds himself, he knows not how, 
on°the banks of that mighty lake that is the pride of Switzerland and the 


96 


transfusion: or, the 


admiration of the world. With easier pace and more considerate tread, he 
moves along the shore. The dulcet sound of the flowing waters, as they 
meet the land, is a gentler music, and softens the fiery spirit awake within 
him. He rouses from the trance which has come upon him like an incubus 
of pleasing torture, as mighty over him in its sway as Allova’s Dream to 
the soul of the hero, and is able to take survey of each surrounding object. 
The whole scene that thus in a moment breaks upon his view is suited to 
allay the fierce ferment he had undergone : while his ear feasts on the 
tranquil music of the waters, his eye receives a like delight from the high 
moon of heaven that silvers all the wave, and by its sparkling reflection 
picks out the snow-capt apex of some giant mountain from the distant 
obscurity. As he looks around him, he feels that the new-born impres- 
sions of his soul are as capable of affording pleasure as pain. The first 
breaking-in upon his unprepared sensory has lost its irritating influence ; 
and what remains is of that elastic and joy-exciting kind in which the 
mind delights to revel, and which gives it tone and feeling to imbibe the 
most refreshing delights from all that nature and the world offer to its survey. 

Engaged in these pleasant scenes, he wanders on till his course is 
stopped by a jetty that projects from the water-side. To his eye, taught 
by the early scenes of Unwalden to look for the picturesque, it affords an 
agreeable interruption ; and he amuses his fancy by observing on the 
ground the grotesque shadowings its open and straggling timber affords to 
the moon, that shines on the other side in uninterrupted lustre. As the 
lazy bachelor after his solitary meal sits over his winter fire, and traces in 
the arrangement of the glowing embers various objects of “flood and field,” 
so Albert, in the vivacity of his fancy, discovers in the deep shadows cast 
frofn this rude piece of workmanship a new and freakful set of pictures. 
In one spot he traces the rude outline of a Moorish cupola, and he thinks 
of fair Circassians, Damascene sabres, and Iman’s vows: — but his eye 
roves ; and the next shadow or two taken into the story, the cupola melts 
away, or, being remodelled to the working of his fancy, helps to picture 
forth a pack of wolves straining theirfamished bodies in pursuit of a gallant 
steed, that gallops up, and up, and up a strange ascent, till the whole 
dissolves, and the imaginary scene is gone as it came. But what is this ? 
The outline of a man! Yet bow strangely perfect in all its parts — no 
limb is wanting — no proportion wrong, even to the very profile of his face. 
The youth looks up to discover what strange arrangement of timbers pro- 
duces so perfect a delusion, and through the maze of wood-w'ork beholds 
a man indeed. 

As soon as this unexpected intruder on the privacy of the scene perceived 
that he was observed, he threw a large cloak around him : — the shadowed 
outline, as pourtrayed by the moon on the tranquil shore, was turned into 
an unmeaning mass. But the man — the creature — still remained something 
too living and substantial for the moon to influence. 

Albert, who was neither of a fearful nature, nor had yet been taught by 
bad men the lesson of dread, stood for a minute gazing at the stranger ; 
and then, as if unwilling to intermeddle with a matter in which he had no 
pretence ior being a party, turned gently round and prepared to retrace his 
steps. A quick motion of the midnight cloaker, however, seemed as if 
this was about to be prevented, for he strode rapidly forward, and placed 
himself in front of the orphan. Albert paused, as if questioning the mean- 
ing of this interruption : the other paused also, as if in doubt, and then, 
apparently changing his intentions, he moved out of the youth’s direct 
path, who walked slowly forward, somewhat surprised at finding that by his 
pace the stranger regulated his own. 

“My good friend,” at length said Albert, “is it so very necessary that 
we should walk together?” 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


97 


“ The voice too,” muttered the other ; — “voice and face— face and voice ! 
I did not think 1 had so much heart left — but still he kept pace with the 
youth. 

Albert did not well know what to make of his new acquaintance; but 
he determined to bring the point to an issue. Suddenly he made a full 
stop, and said, “ Come, sir, be pleased to choose your road. Take which 
you list ; but in return leave me also to my own free choice.” 

The man gazed again at the boy as if irresolute what to do. “ I never 
ye‘,” said he with a heavy voice, “ did sue for charity — I never thought I 
should : but there is something in the tones that meet my ear that would 
alter my purpose ; so let it be for charity’s sake that you afford me help.” 

Albert was not altogether pleased with this address, but there was a 
bitterness in the voice that addressed him that, to his nice ear, bespoke 
misery and want, and he gave the demander the only two francs he had in his 
possession. “ This is my whole stock,” said he ; “ would it were more !” 

“ Money and kindness too !” cried the other, and there seemed to be a 
strong inward feeling on him. “ Will my friend forgive me if I ask his 
name ?” 

“ 1 am afraid that can be of little use ; however, it is Albert Schvolen, 
at your service.” 

He in the cloak shook his head, as if in disappointment ; and they again 
moved on together in silence. 

At length the youth exclaimed, “This is against our contract: the 
money was given on condition that we parted. So, good night.” 

“ Yet one word,” cried the other ; “ I am a man without friend or con- 
nexion — without money and without means. Cannot your young heart 
pity such a one ?” 

Albert’s answer was a sigh. 

“ If that sigh was for me, I could — Psha ! is this to be my strain after all 
that has passed ? Yet one word ; — a last effort with a distant friend will 
occupy me a month. It is a mad request I have to make ; but will you, 
one month hence, meet me at this hour at the jetty ?” 

Albert started, as if he felt that it was indeed a mad request, and gravely 
shook his head as he gave a decided negative. 

“ By Heaven,” cried the other, his voice rising with anger, “you must, 
for I feel — no matter what ; but you must come !” 

Albert was again peremptory in his refusal, on which the stranger 
grasped him by the shoulder, as though he were Gigas standing over a 
mere son of earth, while he exclaimed, “ Never will 1 loose my hold till 
you promise to come.” 

Albert began to be alarmed. “Why not come to me in Geneva?” he 
replied. 

“Come to you — and in Geneva ! no, no, I have too much respect for my 
neck to set foot in Geneva just now. I would as soon jump into a tiger’s 
den, or face an alligator. Promise, young sir, promise to come.” 

Albert, still more terrified, cried, “ I do promise.” 

“ On this night month at twelve ?” 

“I promise.” 

“ Then farewell till then, and see you keep that promise ; or neither Ge- 
neva nor ten thousand gates of adamant shall shut me from you.” 

And with rapid strides he vanished from the spot, where the youth stood 
awhile wrapt in wonder and dismay. 

It was not, however, long before he made his way home. On his arrival 
he found the whole party he had so abruptly quitted at the concert-room 
naturally anxious on account of his absence : but under the plea of indis- 
position he avoided any explanation, and sought his own room, where for 
many an hour he ruminated on the strange events that had filled the evening. 

51—1 


98 


TRANSFUSION : OR, THE 


CHAPTER XVI 

Gen. Araazemen t still pursues me, — how am I changed, 

Or brought ere I can understand myself 
Into this new world ! 

Rob. You will believe no witches ? 

Gen. This makes me believe all, — ay, any thing. 

Hevwood and Broome’s date Lancashire Witches. 

Let it not be said that Albert’s sensations on that eventful night of music 
and excitement were beyond the nature of man. Those who have been 
accustomed to the liquid tones of harmony from their first infancy, begin- 
ning with the muse’s song when she would hush the sickly babe to slum- 
ber, have learned the effect of magic chords betimes, and with each lesson 
have imbibed a share of self-governance and controul ; so that when their 
faculties have grown to that full strength, which enables them to taste the 
true spirit of music’s meaning, there is a discretionary prudence near at 
hand, also full grown, which seems to check that wild and ardent overrun- 
ning of the soul, which mastered Albert in his first moments of receiving 
the insiduous strain that diffused itself through each cranny of his brain. 
His very sense and power of conception were ready for the impulse ; but 
no early training of the mind, or customary apprehension through the sense 
of hearing, had put it in his power to tame and subdue those fine and 
thrilling emotions which came with keener relish, but with more irresistible 
dominion over him. 

With this pervading stimulus active in his mind, it will be small matter 
of wonder that the subsequent occurrences of the evening had but little of 
his attention. When he thought of the strange creature that had met him 
on the shores of the Lake, his experience was not enough to deduce the 
conclusion whether he was most madman, rogue, or fool — one or other, or 
all of them he must have been ; and Albert shortly dismissed him from his 
mind, with the sensible determination of thinking no more either of him or 
of his midnight appointment. 

The effect that De Mara had been desirous of producing seemed to be 
working its way to his fullest satisfaction, and he was each day able to per- 
ceive in Albert’s manner more and more alteration from his former habits 
and pursuits. Long solitary walks, or whole hours spent by himself in the 
solitude of his chamber, seemed now to be his sole delight ; and though the 
count might at first have been dubious as to the influence under which this 
was taking place, it was impossible long to be in suspense on this particular. 
Steal to his chamber-door when the youth thought himself alone, or softly 
creep behind him as he strolled along some unfrequented walk, and ever 
was he to be heard repeating to himself those beauteous passages of mingled 
harmony that had so entirely taken possession of his imagination ; the accu- 
racy with which he had caught them was astonishing ; it seemed as though 
this new gift of hearing had been bestowed on him for this and this alone, 
and that all other sounds were dead and unprofitable in the comparison. 

De Mara found but two drawbacks to the completement of Albert’s vir- 
tual separation from his sister: the one was in Madeline’s uneasiness at the 
violent manner in which her brother was affected, and the other in Albert’s 
occasional voluntary return to his former customs. For days he would 
scarcely be seen by any one : if he joined them at meals, it was only for 
form-sake : and often before the ceremony was half performed, he would 


ORPHANS OP UNWALDEN. 


99 


start up, and again disappear for many hours : but still there were times 
when all this changed, and he returned to the society of De Mara and his 
sister. The question was, from what principle this re-action arose ; and the 
count with his usual perspicuity turned his whole attention to the point. 
From what he was able to make out, he came to the conclusion that this 
restlessness of Albert arose from an over-much dwelling upon one particular 
theme, till it came almost under the guise of a fearful phantasma to his 
imagination, and forced him through mere nervous apprehension to seek 
relief in the society of human beings where brain-fed and unreal images 
find more difficulty of access. 

With this mystery interpreted to his satisfaction, the count thought that 
he perceived how one remedy would be sufficient to remove the uneasiness 
of both the orphans. He presented to Madeline a picture of her brother, 
which was not very far from the truths he showed her how he was suffered 
too much to brood by himself, and run riot in his imaginations, till those 
very imaginations turned upon him and held him, as it were, at bay : he 
bade her observe how it was only when most depressed and affrighted that 
Albert sought the society of his fellow-beings; and how, when somewhat 
re-assured by an observance of their humanities, he again plunged into the 
recesses of his own chimeras. The remedy that De Mara had to suggest 
for this fitfulness of intellect was, that some one should be found whose 
musical talent should be such as to render him a suitable companion for 
Albert ; and who at the same time should be possessed of a steadiness of 
purpose that should tend to make the youth more methodical in his researches, 
and prevent his feeding his own crude faculty with a deleterious mixture of 
what he might imagine to be music. 

Madeline thankfully acceded to this proposal, for she saw’ in it nothing 
but what w as calculated to be most beneficial to her brother : nor w as he 
averse from it ; for though he at first winced under the idea of having any 
human creature partake of the sacred and unutterable effusions of his brain, 
yet when he understood that the person proposed was no other than the 
great maestro, who had conducted the feast of music on his first introduc- 
tion to its delights, he could not but believe that he of all men must be the 
one most intellectual, most profound, and most enwrapt in the mysteries 
and excellences of his profession. 

On the part of FI err Sassenhogt no difficulty was raised which the money 
and eloquence'of De Mara did not speedily overcome ; and the arrange- 
ments were soon complete by which Albert became a daily attendant on 
the studio of this learned musician. 

But though the count had got some way into the secret of Albert’s present 
state of mind, he had not entirely penetrated into its depths: and conse- 
quently, though his interpretation of the spirit that actuated the youth was 
accurate as far as it went, there was that behind w hich passed his com- 
prehension, or rather lay too far below the surface to have attracted his 
notice. 

He looked for the streak of ore that ran through JHbert’s soul, and, having 
found one, did not imagine that there might be another and still richer vein 
more deeply stationed in the mine. 

It is when I approach this part of the history of the Orphans of Unwalden 
that I feel as if my ability would fail me, and that I must at last throw up 
the pen — hopeless of doing justice to the chain of wondrous elements that 
led to this most singular formation in Albert’s brain. I have endeavoured 
to show how the power of music was mighty in him beyond the example oi 
any other created being. I have endeavoured to show how it penetrated 
his very soul, and all its faculties became instinct with its presence. But 1 
have now a heavier task — a more laborious undertaking to perform. I have 
to record in words w hat words never yet presented, as though a linguist 


100 


transfusion: or, the 


should undertake to state a case of metaphysics in some barbarian language 
which never yet expressed aught beyond things of most common and natural 
occurrence. I have to tell of strange and unthought-of powers, first and 
last, invented in the orphan’s mind, and producing results which must be 
called preternatural, because nature has never yet in other instances sanc- 
tioned a parallel case. 

I do not for a moment hope to persuade the reader that that which must 
hereafter form the main ingredient of this story is true : I do not even pre- 
tend to say that it would have passed as such in the most credulous ages of 
mankind. I only know that the rude and almost illegible manuscript from 
which I give this free transcript breathes solemn asseverations of the fact ; 
and that I, as a faithful translator of the spirit of the writing, am bound so 
far to be its guarantee. 

The book has fallen on sceptical and uncompromising times, when assev- 
erations have but little weight. I therefore add none of my own as to 
what my opinion may be. But I am at least under a vow to myself for 
honesty-sake, and to the writer of the faint and ill-deciphered lines over 
which 1 have so long been poring, for his exordium-sake,* to exert my best 
powers to give reality to the strange and moving narrative of which I have 
constituted myself the godfather, by introducing it to the world. 

Hie labor — hoc opus est ! And it is undertaken : for though the chronicler 
of this story feels that he must fail in the finer features of the mysterious 
fabric which the untaught mind of the orphan planned and executed, he still 
hopes that he may retain the power to paint in feeble colours the effects 
produced by such a structure, even when the acting substance and machi- 
nery are lost for want of words to express, and images to delineate. 

As to the profound “ Maestro da ■Capella,” Herr Sassenhogt, he never 
got half as far into the mystery of Albert’s self-communication as the count ; 
and he speedily came to the opinion that his pupil would never make a 
figure, because he had little relish for the rules by which Sassenhogt would 
have guided his path through the gamut, and still less for the inspiring pro- 
ductions of that great composer. 

But one or two fragments of the sort of conversation that took place 
between them will show better, than may otherwise be explained, the way 
in which Herr Sassenhogt came to this conclusion with respect to the talents 
of his pupil. 

******* 

“ Now what think you of that passage, my young friend ?” cried 
the maestro, triumphantly winding up a long flourish on his violin, with 
nearly as long a one with his bow in the air. “ What think you of 
that ?” 

“ 1 think,” said Albert, “ that it does not resemble the overture that I 
heard the first time 1 saw you.” 

“ Why — ahem !” replied the other, “ 1 do not think it does myself, but 
you will please to observe that they are very distinct kinds of music.” 

“ That is exactly what I would have said,” cried Albert, very innocently. 

Sassenhogt looked at him for a minute, and 'could not find any irony 
lurking in his eye, and so went on. “The great difference between my 
music and that to which you have alluded is, that the former is addressed 
to the head — the latter only to the heart. As to mere melody and harmony, 
they have been so hackneyed by past critics, that to expect to excel with 
these only for a guide, is as hopeless as for a cripple to undertake the 
climbing of Mont Blanc.” 

* “ Thou who readest, or copiest, or even breathest a whisper of this strange tale of 
woeful truth, as thou valuest honesty or justice, let the same period assure thy listener, 
that in the conscience of him who writeth these facts are not more strange than true, 
and not more pitiful than real.” — Exordium to the Unwalden Manuscript. 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 101 

“But, surely,” replied the pupil, “ that which reaches the heart must be 
the real criterion of that which is addressed to the head.” 

“ Ah, you are talking of the ancient composers. But, thank God, their 
day has gone by ; and Handel and Corelli now are only mentioned by 
dowdies or grave old gentlemen, who tell at the same minute of the join- 
tures they had to pay their mothers or aunts out of the family estate. 
Haydn, young gentleman — the immortal Haydn had the sense to perceive 
that something more was wanting ; and those who have since followed his 
steps have, perhaps, gone beyond him in this particular.” 

“I do not know of whom 1 am speaking ; but if I were asked of what 
l am speaking, 1 should say of something infinitely disconnected with that 
mechanical arrangement of notes and crotchets which produces sound, but 
no sympathy ; a sort of jangling concord of unmeaning passages, without 
any of that spirit that seizes on the hearer, and rouses him to excitement, 
or dissolves him in tears. It is only when this is accomplished that 1 can 
say I have heard music ; and the rest of what passes under that name is 
no more akin to it than the tagging of rhymes is to the essential and god- 
like genius of poetry.” 

Sassenhogt looked at the youthful enthusiast — said something about his 
never having heard such heterodox dogmas before — and then, unwilling to 
dispute further, took his leave for that day of the heretic, earnestly beseech- 
ing him to give better attention to the subject. 

It may now be easily understood what little reciprocity of sentiment 
there was between these two. Albert had perceived thi3 almost from the 
first moment of his intercourse with Sassenhogt ; and had it been possible 
for any thing to check the extraordinary combination that was filling his 
mind, the introduction of this man of mere science might have effected it ; 
but it was too late to accomplish this. The stream of imagination was 
rife in Albert’s soul ; and each minute adding to the torrent, it was ready 
to hurry him headlong to that discovery that trembled over his brain in 
subtle and feverish suspense, and appeared each moment eager to involve 
his whole faculties in its irruption. 

But though Albert perceived the inutility of his connexion with the 
“ Maestro da Capella,” the maestro himself was by no means reconciled 
to the loss of his r\jpil, which also involved the loss of De Mara’s bounty ; 
and therefore, » • > ’ithstanding the evident disinclination of the youth, he 
still continued to administer to him his lectures on what he called music, 
only endeavouring to take care not to touch on those moot points which 
afforded discontent to both of them. One other portion of a conversation 
which look place between them — and we will dismiss Sassenhogt from the 
scene. 

******* 

“ Then, according to your conception,” said the maestro, <£ music is ca- 
pable of no system at all.” 

“ I have proposed no such conclusion,” said Albert ; “ nor could I hope 
to maintain it if 1 had. I do believe that music has an order of nature 
connected with it, as the solar system has, by which it is decreed to work 
within certain limits, and to be subject to equally certain laws. But 1 laugh 
at the man who shall say that the whole of those laws are discovered and 
analysed.” 

“ You will not deny that the laws of the solar system are in that situa- 
tion ?” 

“ I will deny nothing, for I do not aspire to the subtle altitude of an ar- 
guer or a metaphysician : it is in the humble station of an enthusiast that 
I wish to rank myself, and as such to enjoy a theory of my own, competent 
to the wants of my imagination, and equal to the demand of my feelings.” 

“ And to what does that theory amount ?” 

1 * 


102 


TRANSFUSION : OR, THE 


“ I hardly can inform rnyself that,” returned Albert ; “ and still less can 
I propound it to another.” 

“ Possibly you can tell what your theory does not contain.” 

“ That is an easier task. My present disposition of mind leads me to 
deny the all-sufficiency of those rules which the magnates of niusitf'would 
lay down to the world for the purpose of degrading that heaven-born gift 
into a science, instead of leaving it in its true elevation of one of the high- 
est attributes of genius. De Mara tells a story of a man who boasted that 
he should soon be able to write an epic equal to the iEneid, for he had 
already ruled six quires of paper, and mended as many hundred pens, for 
the task. This seems to be the modern musician’s standard ; he works a 
tune methodically as a carpenter does a chest of drawers, and poor fancy 
is sent to pine in wildernesses.” 

“ This is what we of the new school call the mathematics of music,” 
said Sassenhogt ; “ and surely you would not deny the perfectibility of 
mathematics.” 

“Not in itself; but what business has it in the sacred fairyland of 
music ? No one denies that the key-stone of the arch is the perfection of 
the building, but will that justify the painter in dividing the neck of a steed 
of price by the rule of arches, and calling it the mathematics of the horse ? 
On the contrary, every one sees in a moment that the two things are incom- 
patible ; and, when 1 am told of the mathematics of music, I see the same 
thing ; — but I promised not to argue, so let me ask you a question instead. 
I have been reading the story of Tartini and his Devil’s Sonata,* and would 
gladly know how that is to be demonstrated by the mathematics of music.” 

“ Mathematics,” said the maestro, with some contempt in his tone, 
“ were never yet thought applicable to flimsy dreams, and therefore I can 
hardly be called on to draw up a rationale for that which is essentially 
unreal.” 

“ Why unreal ? Do you suppose it impossible that some thin and airy 
spirit (for devil is an ugly name, and we will drop it) might have diffused 
a charmed influence over the sleeping brain, and worked it to an apprehen- 
sion of that which, when waking, was lost?” 

“Haydn defend me !” cried the astonished music-mathematician; “do 
you really imagine that spirits have any thing to do with music ?” 

“ I only imagine that the genius of music, like the genius of poetry or 
painting, is a mystery ; and that we have a right, when considering the 
subject, to debate on every possible way of solving the difficulty. In olden 
times one man would believe that the unappeased ghost wandered on earth 
restless and unhappy ; another, for his faith, held that unembodied spirits 
flitted in the midnight breeze.” 

“But, thank God,” said Sassenhogt, “we are wiser now.” 

“We say we are,” answered his pupil; “and why? because we can 
account for those things naturally which our forefathers could not, and were 
therefore obliged to. have refuge in those other-world explanations. But let 
another series of mysteries arise, too difficult for even these wise limes to 
simplify, and the first consequence will be that men will again be driven 
back to the supposition that things beyond this earth are the agents em- 
ployed in their production. It is in this situation that I find music. Either 
I am more ignorant than the rest of mankind, or more enlightened : be it 
which it will, I feel something on my brain exceeding comprehension, and 
that drives me to the wildest speculations in hopes of finding a solution.” 

“ It is there now,” added the orphan, in a manner strongly expressive ; 


* It is related of Tartini that he once dreamt that the devil visited him, and, after 
some conversation, took possession of his violin, and played a sonata ; from the mere 
recollection of which, on his awaking, the musician nearly went distracted at the thought 
that, with all his art, he could never hope to rival sounds so exquisite and original. 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


103 


“ and I feel as if my faculty was too confined to contain the perpetual 
struggle for expansion that is going on within ; strange unutterable sounds, 
fraught with divinest harmony, vibrate on my nerves, and they, in their 
turn, seem ever on the eve of answering still more strangely. Oh that this 
might be consummated ! Oh that this delicious, dangerous chaos could be 
arranged, and order given to the sensitive mass that loads me to over- 
swaying.”' 

Sassenhogt was paralysed at the vehemence of the youth, and he cared 
not again to touch on a subject that was either far above, or, as he imagined, 
below his comprehension. He therefore determined to leave Albert in 
future to his own course, merely continuing a show of instruction as long 
as De Mara chose to keep up the allowance that had bribed him to the 
undertaking ; keeping to himself, by way of salvo for his conscience, the 
reflection that, if the youth ran riot in his pursuit, it was no fault of his, or 
of his system, but the result of some strange infatuation that blinded his 
pupil to the valuable principles of the mathematics of music. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

Leuc. Dance, Madam ? 

Bach. Yes, a cavotta. 

Leuc. I cannot dance, Madam. — Cupid’s Revenge. 

O fly ! ’Tis dire suspicion’s mien, 

And meditating plagues unseen, 

The sorceress hither bends : 

Behold her torch in gall imbued, 

Behold her garment drops with blood 
Of lovers and of friends. — Akenside. 

De Mara did not investigate very closely the terms on which Albert 
: and his master went on. It was enough for him that he saw them occa- 
sionally together, and that at all times Albert appeared to be wrapt up in 
his new pursuits, to come to the conclusion that Sassenhogt was answer- 
ing the purposes for which he had applied to him, and that his intervention 
was aiding the separation of the youth from his sister. 

But even had the count been disposed to enquire more minutely into 
the nature of the instruction which the maestro was able to afford, the 
change of circumstances which took place in his connexion with Made- 
line would have operated to prevent it. For awhile he waited in anxious 
hope that the result of all his labours and deep-set intentions would termi- 
nate in the fall of Madeline, according to his longing expectation. But 
though every thing that seemed to present a face of difficulty had been 
removed— though the maiden herself appeared to have given him all that 
devotedness of Tove which women best know how to feel, and how to ten- 
der, with a delicacy that makes love a bliss of unutterable sort, still there 
was an upright purity in her every movement, that seemed to prevent the 
explosion ofthe mine that had been so artfully laid in her own bosom, and 
that defied the most wily attacks of him who held siege around her. 

De Maw a was confounded at his want of success. Women he had stu- 
died, and had thought himself prime master of all their methods ; but 
there was that in Madeline’s character which was beyond his ken ; and, 
to his astonishment, he found, that though his machinations were sufficient 
to make him master of the city, the grand fortress— the capital of the whole— 


104 


TRANSFUSION : OR, THE 


was impregnable, and resisted his utmost endeavours. There was no- j 
thing in the maiden’s outward show that enabled him to trace the cause of 
this failure. She ever smiled at his presence — she ever listened to his 
most honied words, as though they came soft and grateful to her spirits ; 
and at no moment, whether gay or guarded, lively or demure, could he 
trace in her a suspicion of his intentions, or a sense of the besetting dan- 
ger he had woven around her. 

Why then was she still obdurate to his purpose ? It was true that the 
light in which he had offered himself to the maiden was that of a husband, 
and the outward garb in which he cloaked his sinister approaches was that 
of an espousal before the face of Heaven. But how was it possible that j 
this should have operated to hi3 disadvantage? On the contrary, it ought j 
rather to have led to greater freedom of intercourse, to a more perfect ; 
reliance on the honesty of his intentions, and to a more unreserved declara- 
tion on her part of the feelings, which it was sufficiently evident she enter- 
tained towards him. As far as he could penetrate, it had led to all these 
results : and yet still, with all these abettors in his favour, his success 
seemed more than doubtful, and the boundary of his triumph over the heart 
of the maiden seemed to be irrevocably established. 

But although infinitely disappointed at being thus stopped short in his 
march, he was not dismayed ; and with that hot eagerness of purpose 
which distinguishes the ardent spirit, let its pursuit be good or evil, he re- 
solved to let nothing baffle his design, and to make each defeat only the 
signal for another and more judicious onset. Madeline, however intricate 
her disposition, was still a woman ; and as the count’s favourite motto was 
— that all women had some point of character less susceptible of defence 
than another, he still urged his genius of intrigue to fresh inventions, in 
the hope that at least the fortunate moment would arrive when he should 
find the citadel unguarded, and be able to take possession with all a con- 
queror’s honours. 

Hitherto it had not been any part of De Mara’s disposition to distrust 
his own talents of intrigue ; but the long time that he had been labouring 
in vain to obtain possession of Madeline had forced that distrust upon him*; 
and he was now obliged to confess to himself that his future progress 
would be in the dark, groping about like Sinbad in the charnel cave, still 
hoping that some ray of light might break suddenly upon him, and re-illu- 
mine the torch of hope in his heart. 

But that point of the maiden’s character, for which he so anxiously 
sought, and which he hoped to gain by watching, came upon him by acci- 
dent. Altoz, who had been long expecting the count to accompany him 
on a tour through France, the arrangements for which had been planned 
before their becoming acquainted with Madeline, had deferred his journey 
from time to time in the hope of enjoying De Mara’s company. At length 
however, his patience was fairly exhausted ; and the count honestly con- 
fessmg to him that he saw no prospect of the termination of his adventure 
With the Orphans of Unwalden, the chevalier determined to wait for him 
no longer, but to set out alone on his journey. For a long time De Mara 
battied against this resolution ; but, finding his friend obstinate, he was 
obliged to concede to the arrangement, and even agreed to accompany him 
his first stage on the journey. J 

“ Come Altoz,” cried he, on his friend rising from the break fast- table 
where he had been taking his farewell lfieal, “ if this is to be our last ttte-h- 
Ule \ox some weeks, at least I will prolong it as long as my duty as a 
faithful lover to my mistress will permit. I have no appointment with 
Madeline till the afternoon, and I can therefore afford to ride a cheval the 
first stage with you.” 

This offer was gladly accepted on the part of the chevalier, and merrily 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


105 


they gossipped as they rode side by side. But it was fated that De Mara 
should not see Geneva again quite so early as he had expected. On cross- 
ing the French frontier the party was stopped for the production of their 
passports ; that of Altoz and his servant was declared to be due and regular, 
but monsieur le comte had none to produce. It was in vain that he pro- 
tested he was a peer of the kingdom, and that his passported friend vouched 
for his nobility ; the officer on duty, who was a young self-sufficient cox- 
comb, just appointed, and full of the all-importance of his office, insisted 
on detaining the soi-disant nobleman till his respectability could be better 
vouched for. De Mara tried the raging, the sarcastic, and the persuasive 
strain, but they were all equally futile, and the only means of escape that 
presented itself was sending Altoz’s attendant back to Geneva to bring 
proper vouchers for his release. In the mean time the day was wasting 
fast ; and, to make the matter worse, the servant, with whose zeal no fault 
could be found, contrived to lose his road, so that it was not till noon the 
following day that he made his appearance at the French frontier with such 
documents as were sufficient to procure the count’s release from his tem- 
porary thraldom. 

De Mara’s annoyance at this unwelcome delay was excessive ; and, in 
the heat of his passion, he felt half-tempted to call the young jackanapes, 
who had been the cause of all, to a severe account. Time, however, with 
him was every thing, and a minute’s reflection enabled him to perceive 
that the undertaking of an affair of honour was not a very likely method 
of promoting his speedy return to Geneva. He determined therefore to 
postpone this mode of venting his spleen to a more leisurely opportunity, 
and, taking a hasty leave of his friend, he galloped back at the height of 
his horse’s pace to Geneva. 

In the mean time Madeline had wailed hour after hour, vainly expecting 
the count each moment to make his appearance. In this way the whole 
of the afternoon and evening of appointment passed away. Nor was the 
next morning more productive of the looked-for visiter, who, on sending to 
his lodging, she was informed had quitted them on the preceding forenoon 
in company with Altoz. This information did not lessen the pique that 
had been gradually augmenting in her bosom at the prolongation of De 
Mara’s delay. Several sarcastic observations that had fallen from Deboos, 
in the character of Madame Lalande, had imbued the maiden with no very 
favourable feeling towards the chevalier ; while he, on the other hand, 
annoyed at the way in which she had engrossed the whole of his friend’s 
company, and induced him to break his travelling engagements, felt no 
strong desire to overcome the prejudice that he perceived was growing up 
in her mind towards him. When, therefore, Madeline learned that De 
Mara’s neglect of her was coupled with his attention to Altoz, she felt 
more annoyed than the bare circumstance of his absence could have pro- 
duced in her mind, and she waited his re-appearance with proportionate 
resolution to stand on all the punctilios of an offended mistress. 

At length the count made his appearance. Not conscious that he had 
any neglect wherewith to reproach himself, he entered her apartment with 
that superlative sort of good humour which arises out of the re-action of 
previous vexation— determined as the story must tell against himself, to 
be the first to laugh at the adventure. But the first glance he caught of 
the countenance of Madeline somewhat damped the good humor that was 
illuminating his own face ; and the thoughts that were a moment before 
flowing so freely and blithely, seemed suddenly frozen and incapable of 
expression. 

“Many thanks, sir,” cried Madeline, drily, “for the punctuality of 
your visit. I suppose you take me for the lady seated in Comus’ magic 
chair — unable to move till you make your appearance to disenchant me.” 


306 


TRANSFUSION : OR, THE 


“ My dearest Madeline,” exclaimed De Mara, “ it is all a mistake. I 
would not for the world have broken my appointment, had not ” 

“ Had not the company of the Chevalier Altoz been so very fascinating,” 
interrupted Madeline ; “ I am obliged to Count De Mara for making me 
acquainted with the degrees that mark the thermometer of his regards.” 

“Now, Madeline, pray do not be so very sure that you are right ; but 
consent to suppose, for a moment, that there may be two views of a sub- 
ject.” 

“ There is no necessity for your showing two views, sir,” cried the girl, 
“ unless you wish to betaken for Janus, though it is not the fashion in these 
degenerate times to pay much respect to that double-face piece of anti- 
quity.” 

“ But at least allow me to explain — ” 

“ Why should I ? Truly I have no right to demand explanation.” 

“You have every right. Do you think when I acknowledge you for my 
sovereign mistress, that I mean nothing by it j or, that my declaring myself 
your servant in all that man can do, means nothing ?” 

“ Really,” cried Madeline, “ you should not trouble yourself to ask such 
questions, when your conduct for the last four-and-twenty hours presents 
such an all sufficient answer to them. When. I become sovereign mistress 
— how small the kingdom I care not — at least my name shall be supreme ; 
and he who declares himself my servant, I shall hold as none from the mo- 
ment I find he is content to have two rulers. But come,” added she, seeing 
(he count look grave, “ we will say no more about this matter. As much 
as 1 have said, I felt 1 was bound to give utterance to injustice to us both ; 
for the rest, any excuse will be admissible.” 

But when De Mara explained to her the difficulty under which he had 
been labouring, Madeline was two generous not to retract all she had 
said. 

‘ : Forgive me, dear De Mara,” cried she, “ that I may forgive myself: or, 
if I must offer an apology for what I have said, receive it in the reflection 
— that warmth of feeling for neglect includes warmth of feeling for atten- 
tions, and that had you not taught me the sweets of the latter, you never 
would have experienced the bitter of the former.” 

De Mara pressed the maidens to his arms, and, kissing away the tears 
that hung like drops of precious gum from some heart-healing tree, swore 
that he would not have had a word less said of blame, so sweetly had the 
pain it had inflicted been soothed by the soft balmy declaration that had 
succeeded. 

It was from this incident and its consequences that De Mara gathered a 
light which he determined should aid him in his future course. He inves- 
tigated the traits of disposition Madeline had displayed in this short con- 
versation, and he thought he plainly perceived that, to attack her on the 
side of her vanity, was to insure success ; and that, by properly playing 
her wounded self-complacency against itself, he should make himself more 
entirely master and comptroller of her heart than by any other means that 
could be adopted. Again and again he repeated to himself every word that 
had passed between them, and more and more plainly he perceived that his 
solution of the temper of mind that had dictated her words was the correct 
one. At the same time it was evident that her native goodness of disposi- 
tion had soon led her to correct the fault into which she had fallen, and to 
retrieve, to the utmost of her power, the error she had committed. But the 
count had long been an adept in feeding the failings of the sex, and he had 
little doubt that, with proper attention and opportunities, he should be able 
to fan this smouldering, and almost inert feeling of the mind, into a furious 
and overpowering flame. At all events the experiment was worth trying, 
and De Mara set himself about the task with all the gout of a young and 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


107 


hot-blooded cadet, joined to the experience and finesse of a grey-headed 
campaigner. 

As for Madeline, she appeared all anxiety to remove by the suavity of 
her demeanour any disagreeable impressions her petulance might have 
raised in the mind of De Mara, who thought she had never appeared half 
so delightfully amiable as now that her manner was tinged with a slight 
embarrassment at the consciousness of having accused him unjustly ; and 
who longed for another occasion to raise the same troublous emotions in 
her bosom, even though they should produce no effect more to his purpose, 
than the same exquisite perplexity of manner, and the same pretty desire of 
wiping away the wrong that she had committed. 

The engagement that De Mara had been forced to break with his mis- 
tress was one that had been planned for the purpose of taking a drive a few 
miles into the country ; and when there, having their usual ramble on foot, 
by which means Madeline was to be afforded an opportunity of seeing the 
rural beauties of the nighbourhood, without the fatigue of walking till they 
should commence. For such an object as this, one day was as well suited 
as another ; and, at the request of De Mara, it was arranged that the next day 
should be devoted to that purpose. The morning arrived, as beautiful as 
the most ardent admirer of Nature in her simple attire could desire ; and 
Albert having declined according to custom, joining them, Madeline and 
the count proceeded in an open carriage along the plain where the Saleve 
and Mole so suddenly and so picturesquely raise their enormous heads 
towards the skies in a multitude of fantastic forms, baffling the most fanci- 
ful imagination to picture out all their strange and uncouth similitudes to 
things of heaven and earth. No sooner were the travellers fairly embo- 
somed in the fruitful and flower-decked scenes, that this lovely and luxu- 
riant plain so bountifully affords in every direction, than they quitted the 
vehicle that had conveyed them thither, and wandered arm in arm where 
best their fancy pleased. The count, who could love nature or any thing 
else, when occasion demanded, dwelt with soft and suiting words on the 
charms that surrounded them — at one time comparing them with the still 
more sunny-loveliness of southern Italy, and at another with the bleak and 
ruder aspects of the north, with which his far extended European travelling 
had made him acquainted ; while Madeline with a greedy and devouring 
ear listened to the pleasing variety with which he decked his discourse. 

Eut on a sudden their conversation was unseasonably checked. 

They had just arrived at the skirts of a little copse, that with its leafy 
and sun-forbidding enclosure graced the side of a rivulet, when some re- 
mark of De Mara was interrupted by the shriek of a female ; and the mo- 
ment after, a young maiden rushed with a perturbed and rapid step from 
one of the winding paths of the plantation, near which they had made a 
sudden halt, in silent wonder what such a cry of distress might mean, and 
whence it came, to destroy the peaceful tranquillity of the scene. The 
moment the stranger perceived that there were two persons near her, she 
flew towards them ; and then, as if entirely exhausted by the effort, she 
sank on the ground at their feet without a word. The mystery of her ap- 
pearance, however, was in part explained to De Mara, when he observed a 
man break through the copse at nearly the same point whence the female 
had issued, with sufficient speed in his motions to denote that pursuit was 
his object. When the ruffian, for such his appearance stamped him, saw, 
that his victim had found such unexpected protection, he halted for a moment, 
as if deliberating within himself whether he might venture to attack her 
even while under escort ; and then, prudence seeming to get the better of 
the spirit of rapine that had actuated him, he hastily retreated to the shelter 
from which he had so rapidly emerged a minute before. 

In the mean time, Madeline, unconscious of the presence of this suspt- 


108 


transfusion: or, the 


cious intruder, was busily employed in endeavouring to restore the sus- 
pended animation of the fair stranger. After awhile she succeeded ; but, 
her return to consciousness was accompanied by the most violent trembling 
of her whole frame, as if she had only awakened from her trance to re- 
member with full acuteness some painful occurrence that had been thrust 
upon her. The assurances of her two new protectors, however, by degrees 
recomposed her, and she seemed gradually to throw off that delirium of 
terror which had taken possession of her timid and susceptible imagina- 
tion. Her explanation of the incident was short, but sufficient : from her 
statement it appeared, that— a native of Geneva — she was spending a few 
days with her aunt who resided in the neighbourhood of the scene where 
this transaction was taking place, and had been tempted by the fineness 
of the day to wander through the copse, with a book as her only compan- 
ion : while intent upon her study, a man rudely clad, but chiefly enveloped 
in a large and threadbare cloak, well marked with travel-stains, stood be- 
fore her and demanded her monej' and trinkets. His threatening attitude,! 
the sternness of his address, and the gloomy lowering eye he fixed upon 
her as he spoke — all forbade a minute’s hesitation, and she gave him what 
little silver she had — trinkets she had none. 

“Ho, ho!” cried the robber, “then I must have trinkets’ worth ; I 
know a good soul that is fond of buying dresses of such a pretty pattern as 
that you wear ; so pray imagine this a lady’s boudoir — Eve did with at 
worse— and I will be lady’s-maid to help you doff it.” 

The girl, alarmed at his manner as well as his command, sprung fromi 
him, and with loud cries of terror, he fast pressing at her heels, flew towards! 
the skirts of the copse, with scarcely any formed hope in her mind save 
that of an indefinite chance of escape. The rest of her simple tale is 
already narrated. 

Of course she was not again left alone till conducted in safety to the 
house of her relation ; who, when informed of the obligation she had in- ( 
curred to Madeline and the count, would on no terms allow their departure 
till the approach of evening warned them that it was time to return to 
the city. Mademoiselle Basault, their new acquaintance, and as it were, 
protegee, seemed never tired of reiterating her thanks to both for the pro-; 
tection they had so opportunely afforded her ; and her fine eyes and richly 
mantling cheeks seemed every minute ready to offer the tribute of a tear 
and a blush of gratitude, as she recorded again and again the manner in ; 
which she had been so happily delivered from her peril. 

But this was an opportunity not to be slighted by the count. At any i 
time the handsome face and feminine manners of the youthful thanksgiver! 
would have gained his admiration ; but now, when the progress of his plot 
against Madeline demanded such an opportunity, and was only waiting 
for a fit object on which to invest it, he gave a full license and flow to that 
gallantry for which a well educated Frenchman seems to have received the 
world’s patent and letter of marque. But, however attentive he was to 
Mademoiselle Basault — and he rejoiced that the peculiar circumstances of 
his introduction to her authorised his displaying a warmth of manner 
which on any other occasion would have been too prononcd to be within the 
bounds of politeness — he took care to have always sufficient regard to ! 
Madeline, to be able to note the effect that his address to the other had 1 
upon her. 

Poor Madeline ! it was a severe ordeal that she had to undergo, but she 
acquitted herself well ; ever and anon a growing jealousy at his marked 
observance of Mademoiselle Basault would conjure strange thoughts into 
her heart ; but the firmness of her mind gave them battle, and each time 
that the outset was made, her decision put them to the rout. Her good 
sense even enabled her to argue the subject with herself. Was it not na- 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


109 


tural that the stranger should feel grateful to a man, who, though his pre- 
sence had only been used, would no doubt have faced her enemy° had there 
have been occasion, and who, at all events, whether actively or passively, 
had effected her deliverance from a most dangerous situation ? On the 
other hand, could De Mara do less than acknowledge with grace, and even 
almost tenderness, those grateful outpourings of the heart which were 
offered him in the pure spirit of earnest thankfulness ? Perhaps his man- 
ner was a little more ardent than the occasion demanded, but then the line 
was a difficult one to be drawn ; and not meaning, for how could she sup- 
pose he meant to distress her, he was probably erring on the right side, in 
meeting the fervour of the stranger's thanks by a more than equal fervour 
on his own. And still further, whether right or wrong, it would be quarrel- 
seeking in such a case to reprehend or find fault with his behaviour to one 
day’s acquaintance, wffien probably they might neither of them ever again 
see the other in the whole course of their lives. 

This is an outline of the self-appeasing reflections that Madeline incul- 
cated to her somewhat uneasy fancy— and they had their effect. The count 
watched her closely: he saw her quail, he saw her re- assured, and with 
vexation was obliged to confess to himself, that with all his skill he had 
not been able to lay any visible or certain corner-stone for that fabric dedi- 
cate to jealousy, that he purposed raising in her mind : and still more was 
he confirmed in this, when on their return home Madeline not only spoke 
with pleasure of the occurrences of the day, but dwelt with reasonable 
praise on the beauty of Mademoiselle Basault ; at the same time rallying 
De Mara on the speed with which he had endeavoured to establish himself 
in the young lady’s good opinion. 

Still he had seen her quail ; and, though it was but for a moment, it jus- 
tified a hope that a repetition of similar attacks might produce a more per- 
manent effect. The passions may be acted on, as a continual dropping 
of water will produce the decomposition of the stoutest marble ; and De 
Mara, though he could not yet flatter himself that he had actually succeeded 
in laying a foundation was not slow to believe that he had sown a 
small and almost imperceptible seed, that with proper watering and culture 
would by-and-by yield the fruit for which he looked. In this hope his 
mind was still active to be employed in the same pursuit, and he stood ever 
on the watch to find some other Mademoiselle Basault with whom his op- 
portunities might be greater and proportionably successful. 

ft was with this view that, two days after this adventure, he persuaded 
Madeline to accompany him to a grand ball that was to be given in Ge- 
neva by one of the chief magistrates, in honour of his only daughter hav- 
ing come of age. It. was not much persuasion that Madeline required, for 
she had a heart of gaiety ever open to the sprightly movements of the dance, 
and she had often thought, with an innocent sigh, of the gay dancing of 
the villagers of Unwalden, when on high-day and holiday they mustered 
at the well-known spot dedicated from time immemorial to the prosecution 
of such festive scenes, and gave their whole hearts to the mirth-inspiring 
spirit of the hour. This proposal of De Mara, therefore, was doubly wel- 
come : always happy to be with him who had fascinated her soul by his 
eloquence and attentions, and the combined elegance of his person and 
manners, she felt that the zest of that companionship would be heightened 
by a scene that would revive in her memory the many happy hours she had 
spent in a like amusement around the nurture-spot of her childhood. It 
would be a sort of identification of her present situation with past happi- 
ness — an authorizing of her present pursuits by the example and coun- 
tenance of those which had been allowed and looked kindly on by her 
mother. 

It was w r ith such sensations as these, that Madeline accompanied the 
51—2 


110 


TRANSFUSION : OR, THE 


count to the rooms where the ball was to be given ; and the scene that-pre- 
sented itself to her notice on her arrival there, was in every respect calcu- 
lated to heighten those sensations. The suite of apartments into which 
they w’ere ushered blazed with a thousand lights, which reflecting mirrors, 
suspended in golden framework from the walls, gave back with double in- 
terest where the mirrors were not ; — gay and festive drapery swept in rich 
festoons along the sides, glistening with fresh and pinky tinge, like some 
bevy of young maidens first let upon the world’s bright passages, when 
their cheeks borrow a quick supply of the heart’s most honest blood to 
blush their pleasure and surprise. Music too was there, as light, as fresh, 
and as brilliant as the mere substantial show's of the night, lending its aid 
to make the magic “ firm and good.” The blithe and airy measure of the 
dance knocked at the heart’s door, and found a w illing entrance, but no 
resting-place ; for the ruling fairy of the scene was one of those restless 
spirits that know neither cessation nor pause, w'hen such fancy-stirring 
business is afloat. But the grand consummation of the whole was the 
living charrn of the place. Hundreds of beautiful faces, whether instinct 
with feminine grace or openness, were beaming with the gladsome turmoil 
of the scene : it was a representation of the fabled palace of truth ; for the 
impress of each heart seemed stamped on the countenance, and the motto 
on all hands, lighted up by bright eyes and laughing cheeks, was “joy — joy 
— joy !” it was a human illumination — a soul-fed bonfire of rejoicing ; and 
Madeline, as she gazed around, thought she had never before seen so ex- 
quisite a picture of what philosophy in its researches after man’s happiness 
ought to paint. 

But though the cup that w'as here offered to the maiden’s taste was all so 
brilliant, “ dropping odours, dropping wine, ^ — there was destined to be a 
scruple of poison intermixed, the infusion of which was to turn sweet to 
bitter — joy to sorrow — bright thoughts to heavy sighs. And who was the 
fell disturber that broke ail the humanities at once ? Who w'as he that in 
the unguarded moment of honest and pure delight hovered around to stab 
all happiness with grievous and mortal wound ? Look in the handsome 
face of Count De Mara ! observe his gay but unaffected air of elegance ; 
mark his well-formed features, tutored (but so cunningly as to seem nature- 
taught) to a bland and heart-winning smile ; listen to his wmrds that fall 
with sunny softness on the pleased and willing ear of his mistress ! Listen, 
Ifcark, observe — and then say whether it be possible to believe that such a 
man can indeed be a second Richard who knows how to 

w Smile and smile, and murder while he smiles.” 

The first Richard had a body to answer the deformity of his mind, for no 
one expects to find genuine warmth in an unroofed dwelling ; and it was a 
something towards a wicked apology that he was able to exclaim — 

* “ Then since the heavens have shaped my body thus, 

Let hell make crookt my mind to answer it.” 

But how was this, the second and the worst — so goodly in form, so shaped 
a creature, that it seemed as if nature had had some Endymion fancy for 
his father, and cast her godson in a favourite mould ? Oh, it is a cruel trial 
for humanity when the brightest form is found encasing the most distorted 
soul ! 

Scarcely had Madeline taken survey of the gay scene that surrounded 
her, and impregnated her fancy with a flow of happiness that was to last 
the evening, when a young lady ran up to her, and, shaking her most cor- 
dially by the hand, expressed a thousand gratulations at again meeting her. 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


Ill 

A moment’s glance told the orphan that it was Mademoiselle Basault who 
was greeting her : and though a tinge of some indefinite feeling came across 
her at the discovery, it did not prevent the receiving her with a proper 
expression of pleasure at the rencontre. But De Mara soon relieved his 
mistress from any necessity of supporting the conversation : overjoyed at 
again meeting the instrument through whose agency he had commenced a 
series of attacks, he saw in a moment how much more advantageous to his 
purpose it would be, to pursue the same system with one who had already 
been implicated, and through whom the first blow had been given, than to 
wait for another more distant, and perhaps less suitable object. His whole 
powers of conversation were therefore summoned to his aid ; and never had 
he exerted himself so brilliantly — and so banefully. 

But his manner of marking this new addition to their party became still 
more determined. It had happened naturally enough, from his well know- 
ing that Madeline could have no acquaintances at the ball but such as he 
might introduce, that he had not undergone the formality of asking her hand 
for the dance ; the conclusion on both sides being that, as they went there 
as companions and plighted partners in the dance of life, they would 
be such at this— the first ball to which he had ever attended Madeline. 
In the course of conversation, however, that took place between the trio, it 
was cursorily mentioned that Mademoiselle Basault was not yet provided 
with a partner. It was a bold stroke on the part of Ue Mara, but not 
the less a full consequent of the policy on which he had determined to 
act ; and he at once solicited the honour of her hand. The young lady 
curtsied her thanks and, the music for the dance at that moment striking 
up, away they tripped with a simple “ au revoir” from the count to his 
mistress. 

It was a strange bewildering emotion that came over the feelings of Ma- 
deline at that moment ; a sort of dreamy sensation, as she repeated again 
and again to herself, “ is it possible V* And what a situation to be left in ! 
Indignation prompted her to quit the rqpm on the instant, but such an act 
was next to impossible : alone, unfriended, deserted if she rose to go, she 
knew not which way to proceed, nor what step to take. In vain she looked 
round the room for a face with which she might have the most distant 
acquaintance — she could not even imagine such a one : and ever as she 
took the circuit, her gaze in spite of herself terminated at the bitter spectacle 
of De Mara and her rival, sweeping through the airy mazes of the step with 
a lightness that to her feverish fancy seemed assumed to mock her wo. 
Once as she so gazed, the count whispered in the ear of his partner : the 
girl blushed, tittered, directed her look towards Madeline, and then tittered 
again. Good God ! was it possible that the faithless deserter was com- 
menting on her distress, and making his new-found mistress merry with the 
situation in which he had placed her ? Was it not enough that she was to 
be abandoned for another, without dragging her misfortunes to the feet of 
her rival for their meed of derision, as the Romans of old dragged the mise- 
rable vanquished in triumph at the chariot-wheels of their victorious generals ? 

But why such thoughts ? Jealousy, the curser of all happiness, the 
mocker of all pleasures, was life within her heart. Each moment gave it 
more absolute possession of her feelings ; and the more her soul writhed at 
the torture, the more was it implicated in the meshes of the fatal net that had 
been spread to entrap her. Warm-hearted, enthusiastic girl ! her own feel- 
ings were destroying her ; and those that should be subjects, were fast 
mounting into the character of tyrants. 

But they return. And must she sit still to brook the taunts that seem to 
her disturbed imagination to play in sardonic smile on their lips ? They 
speak. Oh that she might dare speak ; but the spell of silence once dis- 
solved, the lips once opened, she feels that not all the powers of heaven, or 


112 


TRANSFUSION : OR, THE 


earth, or hell, could prevent her giving vent to the raging flames that had 
possession of her heart. 

Is there no relief from this torture ? Whither speed, that its fire-brands 
may be overthrown and extinct? Nature has its bounds, human power 
its limits, and her heart-strings may crack in spite of her firmest resolution 
to withstand all and every indignity that may be offered. 

The Angels be praised !— Mademoiselle Basault is summoned to another 
part of the room by her aunt. The actual application of the torture is sus- 
pended, and the brain has now only to bear up against the heavy infliction 
that it has already undergone. 

De Mara traces something of what is passing within the mind of Madeline; 
and even he, in the moment of his triumph, quakes lest he may have pro- 
secuted success too far. His instinctive readiness acquaints him that the 
first step to be taken is to remove his victim from the scene of her misery, 
and from the presence of Mademoiselle Basault. A carriage is hastily 
summoned — Madeline handed in — and, in company with her persecutor, a 
few minutes suffice to conduct her to her lodgings. 

The attempt that De Mara would have made to follow her into her apart- 
ment was checked by her at length breaking silence. “ Farewell count !” 
cried she, with a firmness of manner that surprised him — “ farewell, for we 
are destined to meet no more !” 

But it was De Mara’s game to treat all that had happened with that air 
of levity which fairly belongs to a thing of course, and in no way unusual. 
And he replied accordingly — “ My dear Madeline, what strange caprice is 
this ? I thought we had understood each other too well for such freaks as 
these to arise on either side.” 

“ Freaks ! Oh, merciful Heaven ! is that the name by which the tyrant 
would designate his cruelty ! But let it pass ; I was born to be the doom- 
ed companion of misery, and the lot of the wretch is to suffer.” 

“ For shame, for shame, dearest !” replied the count ; “ you were born 
to be my heart’s sovereign. But something has ruffled you : when you 
have slept upon it, you will perceive that it is some misapprehension that 
has been exercising its power over you, and your present angry feelings 
will have passed away.” 

“ The anger, count, may have passed away, but I never can forget that 
he who should have been every thing to me has offered a volunteer insult 
to one who should on all accounts have been the receiver of his most cher- 
ished attentions.” 

“ I protest,” cried De Mara, “ I hardly know to what you are referring. 
And how I have offered insult to my dearest Madeline must remain un- 
known to all who are not in the secret of the chimeras of her own brain.” 

“ O man ! man ! — would you add insult to what is already beyond my 
powers of endurance? But leave me, for Heaven is my witness I never 
desire your presence again ; and Mademoiselle Basault,” added the girl 
bitterly, “ will be angry when she misses you from her side.” 

“ Mademoiselle Basault ! how absurd ! can Madeline for a moment 
suppose that the most fickle of mankind — to be sure the girl has a rich and 
spirit-stirring eye, and her soft lip seems in perpetual agitation as though 
a thousand cupids were making them their place of rendezvous.” 

“ Sir, I beg that it may be understood that these are my apartments, and 
that I would be alone. At least 1 have the right to command your ab- 
sence, though it appears that any other power I might have foolishly sup- 
posed I possessed over you is nugatory and futile.” 

“Ah, Madeline, why such pains to make yourself believe what your 
heart each moment contradicts? — in spite of yourself, you are not able even 
for a moment to doubt your empire over me ; and though 1 may have de- 
voted to-morrow to the service of the jolie demoiselle , you feel too thorougly 


ORPHANS OF UNAVALJDEN. 


113 


to need any assurance from me, that my every moment and every move* 
ment are completely at your command.” 

“ I am glad,” replied his mistress, “ that Count de Mara is able to blind 
his own conscience so well ; but go, sir, go to your new-found favourite — 
render her your service of to-morrow, and let each succeeding day be 
another to-morrow for her. I resign the empty claim I once thought 1 had, 
and only pray that she may not have reason, as I have, to curse the dav 
that first introduced her to De Mara.” 

“ Oh, the ways of women,” answered De Mara ; “ he who shall say 
that he is wise, and has tracked them through all their varieties, shall be 
set down in my calendar for the chief of fools, and wear the cap for ever 
beyond all hope of redemption. 1 thought I knew the heart of one woman 
at least, but it was as though I would have counted the grains as they run 
through an hour-glass, and I now rise from the deception only to know 
that 1 know nothing.” 

“ Nothing indeed do you know, if you can for a moment imagine that it 
is in human nature to have relied with the fondest confidence, and at last 
awake to the sense of that confidence having been given to something more 
fickle than the winds. Such is my unhappy lot — lot most miserable, that 
has betrayed me to myself, and sacrificed my happiness at the shrine of 
my self-esteem. But, never, oh, never, shall such a casket be re-opened : 
— 1 shut it from this moment against the world, and though the heart that 
it contains may moulder and become as dust, at least its last great pang of 
agony has been endured, and will have taught it how to suffer that w hich 
yet remains to complete its trial.” 

“ But, dearest Madeline, at least let the subject be fairly brought to an 
issue.” 

“ I have heard too much of it already,” replied the maiden ; “ rather let 
it be buried deep as the bosom can entomb it. Remember, count, it was 
I that gave you my heart, : it is you that have thrown it away ; for the 
dedication of even a moment’s service to another: in the manner you prof- 
fered yours this evening to Mademoiselle Basault is the unfailing signal of 
the gift being despised. Let us part I pray it — I command it ; and never 
again shall so worthless a thing be tendered to your thoughts.” 

“Well, well,” cried the count, “I will not argue the subject further 
now, for 1 see that you are peremptory against me. To-morrow— or the 
next day at farthest — I trust your candour will afford me an opportunity 
of showing you that every thing of which you complain ought to be set 
down to the account of mere badinage, and that Mademoiselle Basault, 
however bright her eyes or soft her cheeks, has not made me the disloyal 
knight you would imagine.” And then, as if fearing that his further stay 
migTit urge his incensed mistress to pronounce a positive refusal to his re- 
quest of being allowed to see her again, he bowed a hasty adieu, and quit- 
ted her for the night. 


CHAPTER XVII I. 

Ddjh des larmcs! — Voilh toujours ce qui suit ce maudit sentiment qui plait 
tant aux femmes .' — Paul de Kock. 

Madeline by these events found herself again involved in all tho 
wretchedness that attends the war of the passions, when set against each 
other in the battle-field of the human soul. She loved De Mara— how 
deeply and entirely she had never known till then that the question of sc- 
2 * 


114 


TRANSFUSION .' OR, THE 


paration was presented to her mind : she loved him— she hated him too — 
strange but natural product of the conflict of feeling that was going on 
within ! When she thought of the charms of his person and of the still 
more winning charms of his conversation and manners, the tenderness of 
her soul would overflow in tears, till they were dried up by the withering 
parching thought that he had turned traitor, and that those, his charms, 
had been the fatal instruments of the despair she felt at that, act of aban- 
donment. Then it was that the .ardour of her sensations was roused to its 
highest : she burned with indignant anger and hatred, and that desperate 
feeling which makes the present every thing, and shuts out the future from 
the faintest particle of hope. To think that she had confessed the pure 
affections of her virgin heart to' one who had worn them as a bauble, and 
got tired of the trinket ; — to remember she had floated — alas, still doated 
on a man who was the creature of a new face, and who forgot those 
heaven-registered vows that had won her to confession on the flitting of a 
fresh beauty before his greedy and inconstant view ; — it was madness — 
more than madness to be possessed of such thoughts, and the whole fa- 
culties sank impotent beneath them. She had given tears to the first sen- 
sations that had come over her, but for these she had nothing but the silent 
horror of despair. 

But can hope no where creep in? The wretch that is being drawn on 
the hurdle towards the place of execution, strains his ear to the last for the 
faint cry of reprieve from the travel-strained horseman, and, in listening for 
that which is not, will not see the ignominious preparations for death that 
stare him in the face; — the death-marked patient swallows the doctor’s 
pills — profoundly concocted of learning and uselessness — hopes, takes, 
expects, swallows, and dies, with the precious balsam safe lodged within 
his diaphragm ; — the storm-beaten sailor hears the groaning planks of his 
vessel splinter and give way as each billow drives her further on the reef 
where all has struck save hope, and yet still fancies he can see by the 
lightning’s mysterious flash a craggy corner of the rock, which, gained, 
were safety come again. Can hope, then, no where creep in for poor 
Madeline? 

Did he not say that he would return ? — Did he not talk of her candour ? 
of appealing to it? Oh! that it were possible she might have misjudged 
the scene that was played before her aching senses! Was it possible ? 
Might it be possible? — The thought perhaps gave the slightest whispering 
of comfort to her heart : but — no, if it did, it was a fallacy, and she would 
not confess it to herself. 

At all events it never should be in De Mara’s power to reproach her with 
want of candour. She would see the traitor once again, though heart, soul, 
and sense were stung to agony for it. Yes, once again, though his defence 
could be nought. 

There was something in the determination of permitting another inter- 
view that appeased her feelings. It gave no pleasure ; — pleasure was to 
be hers no more — but it softened pain, and her heart was relieved by mere 
comparison, as he who suffers the long night through with horrid cramps, 
and on their surcease finds the agony reduced to one universal ache, feels a 
strange and unusual satisfaction at the compromise. 

The next day, therefore, she was full of expectation for the arrival of De 
Mara. She pictured to herself the various positions he would assume ; 
she framed for him speeches— soothing, excusing, palliating, beseeching ; 
and the effort yielded a precious balm to her wounded spirit. Guilty he had 
been ; but as she coined apologies for him, and clothed them in the magic 
of his syren tongue, the devil that racked her gasped for his empire, a°id 
there was still a wayward vision of possible excuse for him fitfully coming 
across her. 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


115 


But the day crept on.— Oh ! how slow the hours ! each minute, like the 

i seaman’s leaden plummet, sank into the depths of her heart, and showed 
the fulness of the waters of affliction. De Mara came not. Yet surely 
he would come:— even though it were true he had engaged himself to 
Mademoiselle Basault, he would find a little hour for his poor Madeline, 
and have mercy on the misery of her condition. 

So passed the whole of that day — De Mara, ever expected, never coming ; 
and Madeline, silent and still as the heavy shadow of a sepulchre, listening 
for the anticipated sound — listening only to be disappointed. 

The next morning promised better things. His faith was bound to that 
day ; his word w as upon it, and though it might be his intention to break 
those vows that Heaven had witnessed and Madeline had received, he never 
w T ould be so forgetful of the w r orld.’s punctilios as to give promise of a mere 
fact, and do away with its performance. Let him but come with tender 
fcoothings on his lips, and the w'onted look of love that had become part of 
her very existence, and she would forget all. A single glance should con- 
vey the whole of her reproaches ; and if he could not trace enough to vex 
his heart by gazing on the stamp of wretchedness that w as established on 
her anxious visage, her lips should nev«r be forced to the task of pour- 
I traying that delirium of torture which had been her portion since that fatal 
night. 

The same fixed statue that she was yesterday, she appeared again 
to-day. Without motion she sat, and her whole soul did nothing but 
listen, till the well-known step should be heard that gave her pledge of his 
approach. 

At length she hears a voice below. That voice she imagines she could 
have recognised amid the outcry of a Babel myriad. — The step too — it is 
the same light buoyant tread she had often listened to with rapture, but 
which now comes over her with a heart- sickening, as if the stake that w’as 
about to be played was too much for her energies. 

De Mara enters — but not alone ! For a moment there is a dizzy seme- 
[ thing before her eyestha. prevents her recognition of her companion. He 
! speaks, and her ear and eye at the same moment make her acquainted with 
the intruder. 

“It is our dear Mademoiselle Basault,” said he ; “I would take no 
i denial, but insisted on her coming to make your better acquaintance.” 

It was indeed she. But what could her presence mean ? Was It not 
enough that this intruder had been forced by the count’s behaviour into the 
chamber of her soul, but must she also be made privy to the solitude of her 
agony ? 

De Mara himself, full of resolution as lie was to go through with the 
scene, quailed before the sudden change of aspect in Madeline. On his 
entry he found her countenance tutored by a meek and candid breathing of 
the soul, as if willing to hear aught that should extenuate the cruel course 
he had pursued. But the introduction of Mademoiselle Basault had lighted 
the torch of w’ar through her whole frame, and fearfully did it blaze a thou- 
sand beacons from her flashing eye. 

The tempest scarcely threatened ere it burst. “ Is this well !” cried 
Madeline, and as she spoke, her voice proclaimed a fellow-feeling with the 
spirit that was rife in every trait of her countenance— “ Is this well or is 
it not soulless and most pitiful to crush the victim, and then bring your agent 
to feast upon her struggles. Henceforth you will do w ell to forget that you 
are a man ; for the rest of mankind, when this tale is known, will register 
you with those prowlers of the desert that steal through the mists of night 
to dart upon their helpless prey.” 

“ Heavens, Madeline !” cried De Mara, “you do not understand — ” 
Madeline interrupted him — “Too w T cl! I understand! Oh that those 


116 


TRANSFUSION : OR. THE 


gifts of Heaven which enable me to do so — were extinct within me, that i 
might lie down, and know not what thought or recollection was. Is this 
the” battle you wage with a poor unprotected girl? or will not mere war 
satisfy you, that you must thus creep in imbush upon the innocent, and, 
taking advantage of her simple faith, make her fall before your ruthless ally?” 

“ Believe me dear madam,”, cried the astonished Mademoiselle Basault, Ij 

I am no party to this ; — 1 do not even understand what it means.” 

Madeline looked in her face, and her tone altered. “ I do believe you,” | 
at length said she, in a solemn voice ; “ and I pity you the more. Beware 
in time of his voice of poisoning music — dread his blandishments, more 
treacherous than the snake’s dread rattle, w’ith which he fascinates his i 
victim. You have known him but a short time, and may throw 7 off his un- I 
holy charms ; I have been the betrayed of a season, and am fast locked to 
my mistake.” 

“ Believe me, Madeline,” cried De Mara, offering to take her hand— 

“ Do not touch me,” said she, and. she spoke with a wild vehemence of 
gesture ; “ you have touched my soul, and it is withered ; — would you also I 
unnerve my corporeal frame ? I confided in you, and you have betrayed 
me. My heart believed in your love, and was proud to love in return. \ 
Alas, its pride is humbled ; — its spirit is entombed in the den of despair !” — r 
and then, as if unable longer to endure the feeling that was upon her, she 
rushed from the apartment, and sought the sanctity of her own chamber. 

De Mara, whatever might have been his expectations from the progress jj 
of his plot, had anticipated no such result as this. His object had been to !’ 
awaken alarm in the bosom of his mistress — but he feared he had far over- 
stepped that boundary, and hurried her into the fierceness of hatred and 
despair : and as he winded his solitary way, after having seen the innocent || 
instrument of his stratagem to her carriage, he was fain to confess to him- [ 
self, that he had not yet arrived to the extent of his knowledge of women, 
for there was something in the character of Madeline that was still beyond 
his interpretation, and that even threatened to baffle all his skill , and render t 
the most wily outlayings of his genius of intrigue nugatory and of no avail. 

The place soon became as dreary a solitude as the orphan could wish. ) 
De Mara and Mademoiselle Basault departed. Albeit was straying in 
some unfrequented place full of his own strange thoughts, and with still 
more strange discoveries, hitherto unknown in the world of physical or 
moral science, ready to rush in upon him ; — and Madeline wandered about 
her apartments, uninterrupted by aught save the bitterness of her spirit, 
which rendered her heart a sort of moral blasted heath where nothing green 
or refreshing could prosper. 

The more she dwelt upon De Mara’s conduct, the more it resolved itself - 
into his having determined to desert her for the new impression which Made- 
moiselle Basault’s charms had made upon him. But even then the intro- 
duction of his new-made mistress that morning was inexplicable, unless, 
indeed, she had entirely mistaken his character for amenity, and he had at 
bottom a reckless brutality that led him to be unsparing and unceasing in 
the pain he inflicted. Yet it must be so, for there was no other solution to 
the riddle that had marred her happiness. And why should she not have 
mistaken his character in one point as well as another? Two days ago, 
the visit of an archangel would not have persuaded her that De Mara was 
a traitor to the truth of love: he alone was able to do that, and most bit- 
terly had he accomplished it. Why then was she to give him credit for the 
other excellences with which she had heretofore thought him endowed ? 
Urbanity and gentleness were surely more easily assumed than the mere 
heart-connected devotions of affection ; in the latter he had proved himself 
a delinquent, and she now cared but little whether his whole conduct wan 
one universal cheat. 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


117 


Such was her reasoning ; or rather, such was the rational portion of her 
thoughts, weeded from the tumultuous assemblage of the fast- gathering 
phantasmata that pressed upon her brain and hurried her to the verge of 
madness. Creatures like this orphan, ihe chief of whose actions are dic- 
tated by the spirit of impulse, are prone to hate or to love, and the sudden 
check of the latter sensation is often productive of a fearful re-action in fa- 
vour of the former. The fit was upon Madeline; and it seemed as if the 
only way to save her heart from bursting was to precipitate its emotions 
into the whirlpool that that re-action had produced. It is in the nature of no 
woman tamely to endure a slighted love ; but when that slight is leashed 
to a carking insult in its mode of conveyance, the arrow rankles with ten- 
fold pang in her bosom. Madeline felt all this in its extremity. What 
could this forcing her to meet her rival face to face be but insult the most 
premeditated ? It was a silent but most undisguised way of announcing 
that all pledges were broken, all bonds were burst asunder, and it was 
summoning into her presence the most hateful of all witnesses to testify 
their fragility. 

When hatred supersedes love, the step to revenge is easy ; and Madeline 
admitted this last feeling with much more facility than she had strung her 
heart to hate. It is a sort of self-immolating exertion to teach the mind to 
turn the soft and milder tenderings of our nature into those stern and bit- 
ter feelings that lie beneath, ready to be aroused at the bidding of our baser 
share of Adam’s portion ; but the devil once aroused, he strides on with 
rapid pace, and at a far more easy price than the first outwork cost, takes 
possession of all that remains. His flag is up — his beacon is a-blaze — and 
the whole heart crouches lo his sovereignty. 

Thus it was with Madeline. It was not her bad nature that had brought 
her to this ; but it was her temper that had stirred up the more secret re- 
cesses of her soul, where so much of that human portion of mischief that 
fell to her share had hitherto lain dormant. The particle, born of sin, 
winced at the keen spur of the passion that was on her, and, shaking itself 
from the heavy sleep in which from her birth it had been buried, it ad- 
dressed itself with fearful eagerness to the labour that was bidden. 

But what was she ? — a poor weak orphan, unknowing and unknown ! 
What her adversary ? — a man subtle in acts, powerful in fortune, and one 
who was full of the world’s wisdom and its finesses ! Afflictions and 
dangers beset her ; but that which could not be controlled urged her for- 
ward, and she was obedient to the call. Schemeless, and without chart, 
she looked around to see who might be her stead. None but poor Albert 
presented— and she shuddered at the thought of implicating him in the 
heart’s quarrel that commanded her. A youth so gentle— of nature so 
kindly, and habits so winning of all men’s affections— it was impossible. 
But still the cry of revenge was up in her soul ; and ever as she dismissed 
the thought of summoning her brother to her councils, the influence under 
which she laboured brought him back again to her recollection as the only 
agent she could obtain. Her love for De Mara had been of that enthusi- 
astic and single nature, that the benefits she might reap by her marriage 
with a man so favoured in worldly fortune had been no part of her contem- 
plation : the only shape in which it had crept in, was, that it would enable 
her to promote Albert’s welfare, and that he would cease to be an outcast 
entirely dependent on the aid that the absent, and apparently forgetful, 
Seaton might afford. This, with the rest of her pictures of bliss, had dis- 
appeared ; and in her gloomy lucubrations she began to persuade herself, 
that as Albert would have partaken of her happiness, it was within justice 
that he should form part of her ruin. What the end of all was to be, she 
knew not. Death perhaps ; and at the thought a faint smile ot heaviness 
stole into her countenance. Why then should she wish to leave Albert 


118 


transfusion: or, the 


behind to battle with the world that seemed to bless the bad, and thunder* 
anathemas against the innocent? Yes, hand in hand they had passed 
through life. There could be no pang in their continuing so to the death. 

When the sophistry of her diseased mind had brought her to this, it 
seemed as if her impatience to concert measures with Albert could not 
brook an instant’s delay. She wanted execution not only to wait on con- 
ception, but be co-instant with it. Of late she had not particularly noted 
her brother’s habits or mode of passing his time. The perfection of his 
aural sense had rendered him capable of performing his own behests ; and 
a general understanding that he was in all things gratifying his own inch- 
nations, had satisfied her sisterly care. But now that she had enlisted him 
as the right-hand of her movement against De Mara, every action of his 
became of importance to her, every step he took vital ; and she awaited : 
his return home with all that feverish anxiety which attends upon the mind 
wher^fixed upon one single unalterable intent, and balked as yet of its J 
accomplishment. 

It was nearly midnight before Albert arrived at his lodgings. Madeline, ! 
who had long expected him, guessed that the solitary step that rung through 
the deserted street was his, and she hurried to the door to hail his approach, j 
There was a strange contrast between the orphans at the moment of their i 
meeting. Albert’s open countenance, flushed by the night-breeze, shone j 
cheerily and brisk, while expectation, lighted by the soul’s pure fire, stood 
mantling in his eye. How different were Madeline’s features ! There a ne- |.| 
ver-ceasing range of tormenting passions had been flitting to and fro for two [ 
whole days ; her cheek glared with a hectic colour, and spoke of pain's do- j 
minion, sleep’s absence, and despair’s triumph ; — her brow (of old so fine, so i 
marble-like, so dazzling) was cast into wrinkles, in each of which sat ghastly ! 
phantoms blabbing the struggle that was rife within ; — her eye, sanguinary 
and blood-shot, had something in its character unearthly and appalling ; it 
was as though those who should have gazed upon it would have suffered 
some fatal peaalty, like the audacious of antiquity who dared to face the 
frantic Medusan head. 

During the whole of those two days, Albert had not seen his sister — not 
from any want of affection — but his whole faculty had been deep in the 
mystic idea that had taken possession of his' brain ; and strange and in- 
describable sensations had told him that the hour was at hand for that dis- 
covery which for nearly a month had been vibrating in his soul, and during 
which period he had been like Macbeth, grasping at something which to 
the world was air-born and unembodied, but to his own sense most real 
and existent. With this one idea the vessel of his mind had been filled ; 
a single drop, and it would overflow. 

As he gained the door, he raised his eye and caught the first glimpse of 
the strange expression that dwelt paramount in Madeline’s countenance. 
What it was he saw there, it is not in man’s power to describe : Albert 
could not himself have defined it. But whatever it might be, it supplied 
the link that was wanting. The drop was added — the cup overflowed — 
and the vast incomprehensibility for which his soul had yearned^for which 
his intellect had striven — was made clear to his senses ; the mysterious 
attribute was his. 

He clenched his forehead with his feverish palm as though staggering 
under the prodigious magnitude of the burden. Again and again he 
pressed his burning brow, and felt that it was safe locked within the 
fortresses of his brain. But with another glance of that strange unutter- 
able impress that dwelt in Madeline’s face, he would not trust himself. 

“ Farewell ! Farewell !” he cried, and in a moment was lost to her view 
through the heavy shadows of the night. 


ORPHANS OP UN WALDEN | 1 9 

•'■t * • 

m 

CHAPTER XIX. 

Herm. Hate him ! my injured honour bids me hate him! 

The ungrateful n.an to whom I fondly gave 
My virgin heart ; the man I loved so dearly — 

The man I doated on ! Oh, my Cleone, 

How is it possible I should not hate him ! 

Cleo. Then give him over, Madam. — Distressed Mother. 

Madeline, the prey of every gloom-inspiring feeling, passed the night 
amid a whirl of resolutions, that rather took the shape of the wild chimeras 
of a passion driven brain than the rational conclusions of a consecutive 
mind. What the sudden departure of Albeit — no sooner come than gone 
— might mean, she knew not; but it almost seemed as if that strange one 
glance he had thrown upon her distracted countenance, had informed him 
of the desperate design she had formed of mixing him in the catastrophe 
that was pending, and in good time he had fled to save himself from so 
dreadful an inveiglement. 

With the morning he returned. Madeline, still at her painful vigils, 
heard his foot upon the stairs, and, as he entered the chamber, expected to 
see his visage marked with that which should tell her he had come to resist 
her design to the uttermost, and to battle against her intention to the last. 
But there was no such lineament in the whole of his face serene. Smiles, 
mingled with something above human mien, were stationed there in easy 
enthronement ; his eye “ with a fine phrenzy rolling” spoke of satisfied 
enjoyment, and entire possession of the spirit that lent it its wondrous 
lustre; and his whole manner was that of one who had received some 
blessing beyond value, and was willing to make one universal jubilee, that 
all hearts might be gladsome as his own. 

“ I do not know,” cried he, as he met her earnest gaze, “ what I am to 
say to you in extenuation of the strange manner in which 1 behaved last 
night : let my sister believe that the impulse that was on me was irresisti- 
ble ; though even that hardly forms an excuse to my own heart for having 
slighted my dearest Madeline so uncouthly.” 

The maiden listened to the words that fell from her brother, and when 
he paused, still remained as though she would have heard further: they 
were the first words of consolation that had crossed her since the fatal 
night of the bail, and it seemed as if their influence was pouring a grate- 
ful comfort into her harassed bosom. The action of the youth was suit- 
able to the tenor of his speech : he threw his arms round her neck, and 
embraced her with tenderness. 

“ Nay,” said she, with a slight shudder, “you should not kiss me. He 
was wont to kiss me ; and as lie pressed my blushing cheek to his, it was 
then that I felt my heart, going from me. It was by those kisses he betrayed 
me. You will not betray me, my Albert ! But do not kiss me, or I shall 
fancy I see treason in the act” — and as she spoke, the big tears, pure as 
the mountain stream, supplied from the snow-thawed reservoirs on high, 
made watercourses of her cheeks : — the snow of her heart melted before 
the sun of Albert's tenderness, and the over-pent stream found outlet at 
her eyes. 

“What means my sister?” exclaimed Albert, shocked at the sight before 
him. “ Who is he of whom you speak ? — Is it— can it be — ” 

“Oh, do not give utterance to that name! — Yain fool that I was, I 


150 


TRANSFUSION : ORj THE - 


thought but awhile ago that 1 had strung my soul to iron hatred and de- 
spair, and I vowed a vow to my heart that it never again should be called 
on for a tear. Alas, he has taught me how to break vows, or like himself, 
my heart is traitor too, and gives the tribute I would have forbidden.” 

“ Madeline, dear Madeline,” cried the youth, “ speak all, I pray you — 
all, for nature is in a wild and indefinable ferment beyond my own control. 
1 have been feasting my soul with food beyond its strength, and it is reel- 
ing beneath the burden. Feel thou here, my sister,” and he placed her 
hand upon his forehead, which burned as though indeed some fever-furnace 
raged within — “feel thou here, and learn that time will allow no hesita- 
tion. Speak all, I say, lest the strung soul snap and all intellect give 
way.” 

Madeline was taken for a moment from her own circle of sorrows by the 
overbearing influence of her brother’s words and actions. It was as though 
the spirit, instinct in his bosom, struck a kindred chord in hers, and the two 
were vibrating in unison. 

“ I have told the whole already,” cried the girl in a hurried accent ; 
“ De Mara is a traitor, and Madeline a wretch !” 

“Wretch — Wretch!” echoed Albert ; “ why that word ? you would not 
say that he has — ” the word seemed to sink to his soul rather than come 
for utterance to his lips, as he whispered — “triumphed ?” 

“ He has triumphed here,” said Madeline, and she placed her hand to 
her heart: “ but though he has taught it to love untowardly, I thank my 
God it was not his to make it beat impurely.” 

“My sister, my own dear sister, pardon — pardon— that for a moment I 
dared harbour so unholy a surmise.” 

Madeline wept on : that which might elsewhere have roused the over- 
ardent tenor of her disposition, came from Albert so gently, and was ex- 
cused so self-condemningly, that she could not do other than answer him 
with tears. 

“ Cheerily, cheerily,” he continued, “my heart is bounding again with 
lightsome spirit. Feel my brow r once more ; the unnatural, maddening 
heat, that seemed to consume the whole to ashes, is away, and a refresh- 
ing coolness has possession of its place. Through life we have been as 
one — let it be so still. 

There was something in these words that jarred on Madeline’s soul : 
they brought back the headlong resolution she had formed, and again it 
reigned paramount over all other. 

“ Albert,” cried she, “you have said that which I dared not utter. The 
wounded spirit of a slighted woman calls for revenge. Shall we, indeed, 
be one in that ? It is this single feeling that predominates in my heart, 
and I would link my spirit with yours to compass the sweet intoxicating 
measure. Give me your hand.” 

“ In pledge of what ?” demanded he. 

“In pledge of a union of revenge,” replied the other vehemently “in 
pledge that life nor death — world’s wit nor world’s torture — man’s strength 
nor devil’s art, shall withhold us from that one object. Let our bond be 
De Mara’s fall, and the rest to your own shape and fancy.” 

“Madeline,” cried Albert solemnly, “ it cannot be ! 1 should hold my 

life cheap to give your heart content. But it is not you who are calling for 
this act of sin ; it is a wily demon that has crept in, and when his fell 'pur- 
pose is worked to a completion, he would leave you to the horrors of re- 
morse, that would make you hateful to yourself, and me a blight-beariri" 
curse to your sight.” 

“Revenge!” muttered Madeline, “revenge!” 

“Leave De Mara to high Heaven. His appointed time will come” 
said the brother. 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEtf. 


121 


“ You desert me then ?” 

“Never, while a living soul shall animate this body. It is at this mo- 
ment I am best proving my adherence. Were I a coward to my post, I 
should give way to the horrid phantom that has momentary empire over 
you — not withstand its march, like the trusty sentinel of my own sister’s 
dearest hopes. Could you read the whole book of my mind at this in- 
stant, how eminently clear would this be to you ! Its first and chiefest 
page is graven with strange characters, that pourtray matters the world of 
man has not yet so much as imagined.” 

“ Albert !” cried his bewildered sister. 

“ Y es,” replied he, “ I speak in all the sincerity of honest faith. I have 
that within that passeth the wisdom of philosophy, or the hope of the most 
speculative enthusiast. The film of obscurity has been removed from my 
senses, and I walk erect in the plenitude of a discovery which — ” 

He paused. Madeline, once more drawn from her own feelings by the 
! mysterious emphasis of his manner, listened with breathless spirit to his 
i words. 

“ Why do you pause ?” whispered she. 

“ The season is not yet come. Nor should thus much have been said 
but that I would convince you of the earnestness of my affection for you. 
Is not such a mystery as this, at which I have hinted, enough to take a 
man’s whole soul into bondage without even sparing the iota of a thought 
for aught else ? Half an hour ago I could have sworn it. But the cry of 
[ my sister in distress was heard amid the wilderness of my ideas, and I 
| gave up the heaven of my own imagination that I might comfort her. Be 
I wise, be wise, my Madeline ; cast from you the desperate delusion that 
j passion has hung up before the eyes of your mind, and let the heart of 
your brother be a pillow on which your wounded spirit may lie and receive 
the balm of assuagement.” 

Madeline listened to his words, and drooped her head in silence. It 
was too much to hope that the stormy turmoil of her soul could be allayed 
; by the soothing of even such a brother ; but her heart, in spite of herself, 
confessed that it was the most genuine affection that taught his tongue to 
speak ; and though she refused to forego what was still the fixed purpose 
of her heart, she could not do other than bow before the suavity of his 
advice, and even let in some small particle of admission that it was possi- 
ble.that his dictates were those of rectitude and sobriety, and, as such, had 
a right to be listened to. 

While her mind was in this sort of bewilderment, a letter was brought 
to her. A single glance at the superscription was sufficient to inform her 
who was the writer. It was from De Mara ; and though her spirit was 
on fire to be acquainted with the contents, there was a lingering in her 
movements that showed as if some latent and indefinable sensation held 
her back. There appeared a nervous dread upon her, lest the contents 
should trench too much either one way or the other. She feared lest they 
might, on the one hand, drag her back to those desperate remedies her 
diseased imagination had so lately entertained, but the force of which was 
somewhat obliterated by the affectionate remonstrances of her brother ; or 
that they should, on the other, awaken in her heart those tender recollec- 
tions which she had vainly hoped to extinguish, and the flame of which, 
though subdued, was still sufficiently potent to be ready each instant to 
break forth afresh in spite of the hate that had accumulated in her bosom. 
Nor was this all. Not only did she fear either of these alternatives, but 
the fever of her mind had been so great, and had endured so many hours, 
that she felt a sort of gloomy satisfaction at the doubtful stillness into 
which it had been thrown through Albert’s resistance, and she wished for 
nothing more than to be allowed to continue in that apathy of spirit which 


122 


TRANSFUSION - : OR, THE 


was a kind of paradise when compared to the racking turmoil that had 
previously existed. She was in that sort of condition to which the winter- 
facing traveller is exposed, who, overtaken by the bleak and nipping in- 
fluence of the north, sinks gradually into a state of insensibility, and whose 
first sensation, on being roused from his dangerous torpidity, is that of 
sorrow at being disturbed. 

The letter was still trembling in her hand, when at length, as if glad of 
having found a step intermediate, she hurridly exclaimed, “ Do you read 
it, my Albert.” 

The youth was r.ot much in love with the task he was called upon to 
perform, for he feared that the contents, whatever they might be, could only 
serve to disturb the promising tranquillity of his sister ; still he knew not 
how to excuse himself, and he therefore took the paper that was tendered 
to him, and, having opened it, read as follows: — 

“My best Madeline— Twenty times have I begun this letter, and twenty 
times have I thrown aside the pen, despairing of any adequate power to 
express the grief my heart entertains at having been the innoeent cause of 
such a scene as that which took place yesterday. I will not attempt a 
word of defence, only insisting on this — that on the faith of a gentleman, 
the motive you would have imputed to me is utterly unfounded. That 
there was a motive, cannot be denied ; but I feel, that after what has 
taken place, it would be grievous to both to enter upon a point that these 
events have proved may be so easily misunderstood. 

“ Let then the past be forgotten ; and if a contrite heart, joined with the 
most fervent assurance that you have indeed mistaken me, may claim 30 
much — let it also be forgiven. 

“ A word — a look — a token from you will summon me to your side, 
where to prove the sinceiity of his devotion will ever be the grateful la- 
bour of 

“ Your now unhappy 

“ De Mara.” 

Madeline listened to these words with strange and overpowering emo- 
tion. Her young bosom heaved high with palpitation, her varying < cheek 
bespoke the still more rapid change of thoughts that were passing within, 
and her eye streamed a thousand different expressions as she caught.her 
breath to hear each syllable more acutely and intensely. When the 
youth had finished, with quick and trembling hand she snatched the paper 
from him, and her eye ran anxiously over it — no sooner ending, than once 
again beginning, as though each time of perusal was to present some new 
change of expression. 

“ ‘ That there was a motive, cannot be denied what may that mean?” 
cried she ; but her voice showed that though there was still a tinge of 
suspicion in her heart, it was fast relapsing into the former affection of her 
nature. 

“ ? me ?ns nothing,” cried Albert ; “ at least you ought to think so, if 
you have faith in his assurances.” 

“Ask not such a question, for it will harrow me to the inmost comer of 
my heart. In whom am I to have faith ? I thought in my despair that all 
the world was leagued in treachery against me : but the letter has fair 
promises in it, and yet I would not again be fooled to my own destruction.” 

“ Then give up your extremes for once, my sister,” replied Albert with 
a smile. “ Let your love and your hate be tutored to sobrietv, instead of 
running riot in the unhallowed excess of furious passions.” 

Madeline looked grave, but she said nothing. At another time such 
words would have roused her to indignation ; but the weight of her own 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 






123 

grief was bearing down the fire of her spirit, and the mystery of Albert’s 
previous words still rang in her ears, and excited in her mind a sensation 
towards him that almost amounted to awe. 

The brother continued : “ De Mara was too easily received as a lover 
to make him feel the full estimate of the favour. Not that I would say all 
men should be kept in check, but there is a boldness in the character of 
this nobleman— I might almost say, an audacity— that requires repression 
rather than encouragement. He has, however, found a place in your 
heart ; and, whatever may be my own feeling towards him, it never shall 
be act of mine to wean you from him. But 1 may at least advise that, as 
the opportunity now serves, it should be embraced, to throw an embarrass- 
ment over those steps that are to lead to a reconciliation, by which means 
your own consistency will be better preserved, and his pretensions receive 
u salutary warning.” 

And with these words Albert left his sister to her own meditations. 
They were of a much more cheering tenor than those to which she had 
been prisoner for the last two or three days. The heart that has loved, 
e X? n , w ^ iea repudiated, has still a lurking after the former object of its 
affections, and ever acknowledges a yearning to possess its pristine happi- 
ness. De Mara’s former glories gradually brightened in effect on Made- 
line’s mind, but the parting w’ordsof her brother had not been without their 
effect too. and she resolved to tutor her disposition to a more chary display 
of the sentiments that lurked within. 1 J 

It was while indulging in such reflections as these that another letter 
was brought -to her. It was from Mademoiselle Basault, and she read it 
thus : — 


“My dear madam,— The painful scene of yesterday irresistibly impels 
me to address you on the subject, though I hardly know whether I shall 
be assisting your happiness by it. But at all events 1 cannot stand acquitted 
in my own conscience, unless I afford you such explanation as it is in my 
power to offer. In the first place, I beg to assure you most sincerely that 
the count Dc Mara has no pretensions to claim any portion of my heart. 
It is a painful thing for a young female to speak of these things, but I know 
not how otherwise than by so open a declaration to meet the charge that 
you insinuated. You will* probably be convinced of its truth, when I state 
(confidentially) that I am actually under promise of marriage to a young 
gentleman of this city, and only wait till he shall have been fortunate 
enough to obtain tire consent of my parents for our union to take place. 

“ With respect to the behaviour of Count De Mara, 1 do not pretend to 
judge of it But it may assist you in forming your opinion on that head, 
to be made acquainted that it w'as under pretence (not absolutely so spoken 
but insinuated) of an invitation from you, that he persuaded me to pay that 
visit which raised such groundless apprehensions in your breast. Of 
tourse, I now easily perceive that this was the offspring of some deep 
finesse on his part but how could I guess it on its original suggestion ? 
What the object of that finesse may be, it is impossible for me to pronounce. 
The only thing that presents itself as a clue to my mind, is a w'ord that he 
dropped after your hasty departure from the room, which seemed to imply 
that he had looked for jealousy, not for such deep-seated anger. 

“ I beg you to receive my most earnest assurances, that 1 would not for 
worlds have undertaken any thing unpleasant to your feelings, much less 
of a nature to give rise to such bitter emotions, as those which I unfortu- 
nately witnessed yesterday. I shall ever feel myself under the most 
sincere obligations to you for the kind relief you afforded me in my time of 
necessity, and hold myself in the bond of gratitude as long as memory 
endures. 


324 


TRANSFUSION : OR, THE 


« Allow me to add, that never to a living creature will I breathe one 
syllable of the painful interview that took place yesterday. Believe me, 
dear madam, 

“ Your most faithful friend and servant, 

“ Adeline Basault.” 

Here was food enough to supply Madeline with a world of new thoughts, 
and it was long that she pondered on the subject. But whatever direction 
her conjectures took, they still returned to the clue that was suggested by 
the letter of Mademoiselle Basault. When in the heat of her anger, and 
the excitement of her disappointment, she had first surveyed De Mara’s 
conduct, she could find no solution to the riddle but that of his dereliction 
of faith, and her own desertion in favour of a more fortunate rival. This 
mode of accounting for the events that had happened was now happily set 
aside, and not all her woman’s wit could furnish her with a more just or a 
more probable motive for what had taken place, than that which was insin- 
uated by her fair correspondent — rival, now no longer. 

In obedience to this feeling, the course she inclined to adopt again 
changed its aspect, and she found in her present view of the matter an addi- 
tional incentive to act according to the wish of her brother, by holding the 
count at bay till she had taken full revenge upon him for the means he 
had pursued to tty her affections. But with these sentiments in her mind, 
she once more found herself in the same difficulty that had presented itself 
when her thoughts were of a more gloomy cast, and she was looking round 
to see who should abet her in enabling her to satiate the cravings of her 
anger and despair. In that instance, she had, by a compulsion of the mind, 
brought herself to the resolution that Albert should be that agent ; but, 
in the present position of the affair, his aid could be of no avail. There 
was nothing in the presence of her brother calculated to alarm the jealous 
fears of the count, arid it could only be by making that nobleman believe 
that his place in her heart was likely to be supplied, that she could expect 
to afford him a proportionate castigation for the pain he had so gratuitously 
inflicted upon her. 

Indeed, she hardly knew, even if she succeeded in this counterplot to 
her fullest content, whether it would be sufficient to appease the laceration 
that had been so wantonly dealt out to her by De Mara ; and the recollec- 
tion of what she had suffered was only got over so easily by the secret 
whispering of her hope that, though the infliction had visited her most 
grievously, its intention had been grounded on a real, but mistaken spirit 
of affection, that had become alarmed at some needless and insufficient 
cause ; on which account her lover, in spite of his ill-judged machinations, 
was entitled to some sort of pity at her hands. 

Where then was this new agent to be found ? Whom could she so cun- 
ningly engraft upon her scheme, so that neither of the parties that were to 
be played off against one another might suspect the reality of her intentions ? 
It was in vain that she ransacked her brain — it was in vain that she taxed 
her ingenuity— she could fix upon no one that seemed calculated to meet 
her object, and over whom she possessed sufficient influence to keep him in 
play at her bidding. It happened, however, with Madeline, as it has hap- 
pened with some of the greatest geniuses to whom the world has been 
indebted for some of the chief discoveries it now enjoys. Where their own 
wit has failed them, chance has stood their friend in its stead. Archimedes 
knew not how to satisfy the Sicilian tyrant’s question on his crown of <*old 
till the chance of a bath instructed him ; and in like manner our own £ r eat 
Newton made one of his most important discoveries through the chance of 
an apple the mystery of the telescope takes its origin from the chance of 
a game of children, and that of the power of steam from the chance df an 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


125 


old woman’s carelessness. So Madeline’s success in obtaining such an 
agent, as the one for whom she had in vain searched every cranny of her 
brain, arose from an accident of Albert. A few words will suffice to relate 
it. After the youth had quitted his sister, he w’ent forth into the beautiful 
scenery that surrounds Geneva, partly for the purpose of indulging his own 
chain of day-dreams, which composed his chief delight, and partly that he 
might not have another interview with her till she had had time to retrieve 
the calmness of her mind, and to take its counsel as to her future proceeding. 
Without hardly knowing which way he wandered, chance led him to take 
the road to Unwalden. But he was there unconsciously deeply buried 
in his own thoughts, he looked neither to the right nor the left; and how- 
ever much he might have attracted the attention of any passengers, they got 
neither observation nor comment from him in return. 

But on a sudden he was roused from his reflections ; “Albert! Albert 
Schvolen ! can it be, indeed ?” cried some one near at hand. 

He looked up, and perceived at his elbow a man on horseback, with 
whose face he was familiar: a moment’s reflection told him it was Wah- 
rend, his old friend of Unwalden. A speedy and affectionate greeting took 
place on both sides* and the horseman seemed never tired of asking partic- 
ulars about Madeline, and congratulating her brother on the perfection of 
his sense of hearing. 

Wahrend’s repeated inquiries about Madeline recalled to Albert’s mind 
the state in which he had left her, and caused him to ask himself the ques- 
tion how far it might be advisable to take their old friend home to her. As 
to the exact nature of the intimacy that had existed between them at Un- 
walden, he was not very well aware. His deafness at that period had 
always prevented his knowing any thing about it, further than that they had 
seemed fond of being together in their walks and pursuits ; and though he 
had seen enough of their farewell interview to know that Madeline had 
given the Swiss an angry dismissal, much of that had been attributed by 
Albert to the peculiar state of mind in which his sister was at that moment 
owing to the departure of Seaton, and not to any withdrawal of her friend- 
ship towards her companion. It was not often since that time that Wah- 
rend’s name had been mentioned ; but whenever such an incident had 
occurred, Madeline had spoken of him with a kind feeling, and a sort of 
regret, as if she had parted from him somewhat too harshly ; and Albert 
even remembered that on one occasion De Mara had rallied his mistress on 
the expression she had made use of when dwelling on that regret. There 
was nothing, therefore, in any part of his reminiscences that was of a nature 
to induce Albert to believe that Wahrend would be an unwelcome guest to 
the maiden ; and w hen he remembered the gloom and uneasiness of mind 
in which he had left her, he could not help thinking it might be possible 
t!i at the presence of the new comer might serve to distract his sister’s atten- 
tion from the melancholy feelings that were pressing upon her, by leading 
her back to former scenes of happiness and juvenile recollections. 

It was upon these considerations that he answered another— perhaps the 
fiftieth, inquiry of Wahrend concerning the welfare of Madeline, by pro- 
nosing that he should make that inquiry of her in person. 

“ Nothing would give me greater delight,” cried the Swiss eagerly ; “ if 
you dare give me encouragement to hope that I shall be a welcome visiter. 
You cannot altogether forget the way in w'hicli we parted. For myself, 
the recollection will be a drop of bitterness throughout my existence.” 

“ Then the best way to get rid of it,” replied Albert with a good-natured 
smile, “is by affording her an opportunity of recanting what she flaid. Rely 
upon it, what passed was under the irritation of the moment, and that a 
sincere welcome now awaits you.” 

“ Do you indeed think so?” said Wahrend, and his eyes glistened with 

3 * 


126 


transfusion: or, the 


the bare supposition. “ I would give worlds, were they mine, once more to 
receive one word from her in token of friendship. Yes, only one last word 
— that I might be able to cling to that with pleasure, instead of, as now, 
having nothing but what is painful to recall.” 

The young man did not need much more of Albert’s persuasion to induce 
him to accompany him home ; and it would be difficult to tell which of the 
two experienced most sensations of delight on the road— Albert, at the 
thought that he was bringing one to his sister who would allay her grief, 
and divert its intensity — or Wahrend, who a thousand times had been 
tempted to seek Madeline, whose memory was indelibly imprinted on his 
heart, and who had as often been held back by the recollection of her part- 
ing moments, and the fears of still more irretrievably experiencing her dis- 
pleasure. 

They found Madeline in happy mood. Again and again had she been 
deliberating with herself which way she should turn to obtain that agent, 
which was so necessary for the prosecution of her scheme, and the last ray 
of hope had begun to sink in her bosom as they entered ; so that her recep- 
tion of Wahrend — in whom she instantly recognised the very instrument 
for whom she had so earnestly prayed — was more than either he or Albert had 
dared to expect : and the Swiss, to whom her silver tones of welcome poured 
out a music more delicious than his own native airs could afford to his 
patriotic bosom, was ready to worship the very ground on which she trod. 

Albert himself was surprised at the warmth of her manner, and did not 
very well know how to interpret it. The countenance of his sister, however, 
was once again lighted up with smiles, and he was therefore easily satisfied 
with the result of his little project, without caring to dive very deeply into 
the cause. She had been miserable ; she was now happy ; — and content 
with that change, he again abandoned himself with redoubled fervour to his 
own mysterious sources of delight, which were fast locked within his own 
bosom, and from which nothing in the whole world, but the deep and pal- 
pable distress of a most dear sister, could have drawn him. 

It was not long before Madeline found an opportunity of making Wah- 
rend useful in her scheme against De Mara. That very evening, tempted 
by the serenity ol the atmosphere, she proposed to her quondanrTand now 
revived associate a walk to the Plain Palais ; by which means (even if she 
should not meet with the count) it might, at least, reach his ears that a new 
cavaliere sei'vente had made his appearance in her train. 

But her success was every thing that she could wish, for they had not 
been on the Plain Palais above a few minutes, ere her quick and anxious 
eye perceived the count, promenading one of the public walks. This obser- 
on ^ ma -de her more marked in her attention to the conversation of 
Wahrend ; so that when De Mara was made aware that his mistress was 
present, he had also presented to his contemplation the peculiar inclination 
v u 6 j «• ’ Wlt l* she pointed and gave effect to each remark the de- 

lighted Swiss offered to her notice. De Mara, whose first impulse was to 
advance to her side, hesitated for a minute, to consider whether the present 
was a favourable moment to offer those conciliatory apologies which his late 
detalcation so peremptorily required at his hands. Who the stranger that 
was with her could be, was beyond his ingenuity to conjecture : but, who- 
ever he might be, De Mara could not help feeling not a little annoyance at 
the idea of making him a witness of those self-condemnatory explanations, 
by which alone he could hope to appease his mistress’ offended feelings. 
But while this doubt had possession of his mind, Madeline settled the matter 
lor him b> meeting his eye, as it anxiously took survey of the situation in 
which it found her, and honouring him with a bow of good-humoured recog- 
nition. From such an acknowledgment on the part of the lady there was 
no retreating, and he therefore made his way to the spot where she was 


ORPHANS OF UNYVALDF.N. 


127 

Bitting, p re p a ri n g his tongue in the short minute the interval allowed with 
such silver eloquence, as he thought best calculated to win him a gracious 
pardon for his fault. 

But it was no part of Madeline’s plan to treat his last offence with severity 
—and still less did she wish that any thing should pass in the presence of 
Wahrend that might alarm his newly-revived sentiments of love, by leading 
him to conclude that De Mara’s actions were of sufficient consequence to 
her to awaken either her anger or her joy ; when, therefore, the count began 
a deprecating speech, she stopped him in a moment — 

“Believe me,” cried she, “the only way you can take to make the matter 
so serious as your face would describe it to be, is to say any thing more 
about it. I can assure you, the whole is forgotten by me, and only to be 
revived when you shall so will it and with these words she extended her 
hand to him in token of the sincerity of her meaning ; but, at the same 
time, that she might not give him too mnch occasion to rejoice at the tenor 
of her speech, she returned to her conversation with Wahrend, and begged 
him to tell her what was thought at Unwalden of her not having made her 
re-appearance at the Single Cottage. 

“What can they think?” returned he to whom the inquiry was ad- 
dressed — “what can they think, but that the house which was formerly 
known as the pride of the place, is now the object of their sorrow. I passed 
it yesterday — all its gaiety and smiling front seemed to be gone, ana even 
the beautiful clematis that was wont to climb the cottage side with a luxu- 
riance that seemed to know and enjoy its privilege, now looks neglected 
and overspread with weeds.” 

“ Ah, my poor clematis I” cried Madeline, with a sigh ; “the time was 
when I should have resented it as an affront, had any one told me that my 
favourite shrub should suffer from my want of notice ; but a day may come 
when all my old darlings will again be dear to me, and the sweet scenes of 
Unwalden again furnish peace to my heart.” 

“ Happy will be the day when that shall come to pass,” exclaimed the 
Swiss enthusiastically — “ happy, thrice happy, those who shall have to >vel- 
come Madeline back to the scenes of her childhood.” 

De Mara had not yet interfered in the conversation, because he was 
willing to inform himself, if he could, from the nature of their observations, 
in what light he was to view this new comer, who seemed to be interposed 
between him and his mistress at a most critical period. The little he had 
already heard was by no means to his satisfaction ; and he therefore de- 
termined to interpose as soon as he fairly could, and mix himself with what 
had been hitherto a ttte-a-ttte between the party he had joined. 

The honest earnestness with which Wahrend had made his last excla- 
mation had carried Madeline's mind still further back into those delightful 
thoughts that always attend the memory of the scenes of a happy childhood ; 
and she exclaimed with nearly equal warmth to his oYvn — “ And happy as 
the day, and those by whom surrounded, shall I be when that time arrives. 
My whole heart is flooded with tender recollections, and even here 1 fore- 
taste the joys that await me there.” 

“And can no place but Unwalden yield all these pleasures ?” cried De 
Mara. “ I should have thought that the world had more green spots than 
one, and that such a mind as Madeline’s could have found happiness 
wherever smiles find her, and all hearts bow before her. Happy fate is 
hers, w ho, go where she w ill, forms her own circle of delights !” 

“But may not some particuar spot,” demanded Wahrend, somewhat 
hesitatingly, as if not knowing how to follow up so florid an attempt — 
“ may not some particular spot have its peculiar claims, even where such 
queenship exists, and add to the other virtues that attend her ?” 

“ I would not have it so at least,” cried the count. “ It is in my mind 


128 


transfusion: or, the 


little less than treason to imagine that any outward circumstances what- 
ever could heighten the inward heaven that Madeline is able to assume. It 
is of herself, and from herself, that the whole source of happiness is derived ; 
and to propose either addition or subtraction is to suppose that that source 
is not yet perfect and complete.” 

“ Oh, count,” exclaimed Madeline, “ you are determined that 1 should 
proclaim you the prince of flatterers to all that hear you. What is my old 
companion — I may almost call him playmate, from Unwalden, to think of 
such flowers ? or shall I bid him take a lesson and learn to emulate Count 
de Mara’s flights and fictions ?” 

“I have no envy for the task,” said Wahrend, “ for our Swiss manners 
are somewhat too plain to follow such a track.” 

« I have heard as much before,” exclaimed De Mara, drily. 

“ But,, after all, it is the heart that forms the real criterion,” returned 
Wahrend; “ and in this it is like the human form: — trick it out ever so 
finely, the core and substance must still remain the same.” 

“ Upon my word,” cried Madeline with a smile, “ I believe T must direct 
the lesson to go the other way : I have not heard Count De Mara so 
schooled in so few words before.” 

De Mara would have spoken, but she interrupted him. 

“Nay, not yet,” added she, “for your tutor has not wound up his in- 
structions. We are all attention, Wahrend.” 

The count bit' his lips, as he exclaimed, “ O, pray do not trouble the 
young gentleman to extend his doctrine any further. I am afraid he will 
find me but a tardy scholar in his school of ethics.” 

“ For shame !” replied the maiden ; “ we shall have rank rebellion next. 
Besides, I know Wahrend too well not to have full respect for his powers 
of eloquence. 1 have felt them myself,” added she, with a half-bashful 
look, “ and therefore cannot suppose that so excellent, a man of the world 
as Count De Mara is less on the qui vive than myself.” 

The count’s tone was somewhat bitterly inflated, as he answered : — “ It 
may happen that the very eloquence that has suited you so well, may bo 
found unpalatable to my less delicate apprehension.” 

“But surely,” cried Madeline, “ on my recommendation you will be will- 
ing to become apprentice to the wisdom of my prole gc.” 

“ It were hardly possible, madam, even on that footing ; though it may 
be that we shall be able to hold an interview in some other way.” 

“Now, this from a man that bridled with pleasure four minutes ago, 
when I called him the prince of flatterers! Pray, count, where were you 
brought up, for your education must have been sadly neglected ? Positively 
you should buy a tub, and set up as the modern Diogenes, for never again 
can you pretend to the prcux chevalier- ship that 1 was so mistaken as to 
suppose was your right.” 

“I must always be content to assume any character that you may be 
pleased to bestow upon me,” said the count, who though not exactly un- 
derstanding the scene that was going on, found that it was necessary to 
stand on his guard. “ What shall l call myself in future?— For it may be 
as well for me to know, as it seems my opinion is to be the same as yours, 
and l may by accident be asked the question when you are not at hand to 
answer for me.” 

“ Why— why— as to that— 1 must take a night to think of it ; — so, come, 
Wahrend; I summon you to my councils, and we will give his lordship 
the rendezvous to-morrow.” 

She was curtseying her farewell, when De Mara exclaimed in his most 
winning tone, “ Perhaps it will assist your judgment if you allow me to 
accompany you ?” 

The accent made the maiden hesitate for a moment, and then she quickly 


ORPHANS OF UNYVALDEN. 


129 


answered : “No, no, not this evening. There is just daylight enough to 
choose a silk, and Wahrend has promised to join me in a committee of taste 
tor its selection : so the committee and the council can be held at the same 
time, and to-morrow you shall be made acquainted with the judgment of 
the court.” ° 

And with these words she put her arm within that of Wahrend, and 
topped away from the Plain Palais, leaving De Mara to the companionship 
| of his own cogitations. r 


CHAPTER XXI. 

Mi getto a nuoto, e una man ne viene 
Rompendo l’argua, e te l’altra sostiene. 

Tasso. 

At the close of the last chapter we left De Mara standing alone in the 
Plain Palais, gazing after his mistress, who tripped gaily across it under 
| ‘the escort of her new attendant as they moved along he Yvatched each 
i step they took, as if he were scanning their very walk, in the hope he might 
! gain some intelligence from it ; and w-hen at length they were fairly beyond 
his sight, he himself slowly passed on, deeply reflecting on the scene that 
had been acted. 

j What could it mean ? This was the question that he asked himself over 
and over again a thousand times, and his busy fancy suggested nearly as 
many answers ; — nor did the true one escape him ; but the difficulty he had, 

I was to fix on any one in particular, while his mind presented him with so 
many means of solving the same question. At last after full deliberation, he 
reduced his multitude of answers to two, and he determined that future and 
most close observation of w hat took place between Madeline and her new- 
I. found chaperon should conduct him to the more correct one. Either Wah- 
> rend had gained, while the maiden was an inhabitant of Unw r alden, great 
! influence over her mind— so great as to be able to asset t his pow-er on again 
renewing the acquaintance at Geneva ; or else Madeline, as a punishment 
for the scene that took place in the ball-room, had adopted this course of 
revenging herself. The second solution w r as far more satisfactory to his 
self-complacency than the first ; for, if correct, it was rather indicative than 
not, though not in a way he cared to have had it displayed — of the strength 
of her affection for him. But the chief objection to the entire adoption of 
this argument was the ease and good humour with which she had received 
him after what had passed. If this exhibition of Wahrend in the light of a 
lover w’as but a fiction, was it natural that she should immediately throw 
aside all the anger ihat beyond doubt she had felt most bitterly in conse- 
quence of that scene ; and would she not rather have joined to her smiles 
fo^the Swiss, frowns for him ? 

This consideration had sufficient weight with De Mara to make him 
regard his situation in no very agreeable light ; and he perceived that if 
this was indeed the correct solution of the orphan’s present behaviour, his 
only chance was to frighten Wahrend from his post by assuming a per- 
emptory attitude, and thus furnish himself with the undisputed opportunity 
to re-establish himself in Madeline’s fair favour. But his self-love still 
vigorously clung to the thought that the whole might be the result of a 
finesse on her part, and that her heart was still his own. At all events he 
had already blundered sufficiently in his estimate of the character of hi3 
mistress, and it was therefore imperatively necessary that whatever future 


130 


transfusion: or, the 


step he might resolve to take, the utmost care should be adopted in working 
it to a crisis. 

It was before he had been able to give any satisfactory arrangement to 
his intentions that he was stopped by Maravelli. 

“ Can it really be you, count? — far gone indeed must you be in the ro- 
mance of love to be pacing the walks of Plain Palais with nought but the 
moon for a witness.” 

“ Plain Palais !” exclaimed the count, and as he looked round him, he j 
perceived that he was indeed still there, though, till that moment, so deeply ; 
had he been wrapt in his own thoughts, that he had been unconscious that j 
for more than three hours he had been turning and returning on the very 
same spot of ground where he had received so provoking a leave-taking ; 
from his mistress. 

“ Plain Palais !” re-echoed Maravelli : “ why, surely by this time you ' 
must know the public walk of Geneva when you see it ; — or were you 
really so deep in the fairy land of Cupid and the Graces, that you ima- 
gined you were encircling your lady's bower, and that the fair light of 
Heaven was none other but the melting influence of her own bright eyes.” 1 

“ You Italians are wonderful creatures,” returned De Mara, “for you 
are able to discourse all the eloquence of love on the mere abstract propo- 
sition. But come,” added he, willing to change the discourse, “ what is 
the plan for the night’s frolic, for 1 have a mind to show you that I am only 
on the outskirts of that fine place you were talking about so poetically, 
and have still bachelor’s strength enough to leap the boundary, and return 
to my own companionable demesnes.” 

“ Why, I hardly know whether I may tell you,” replied Maravelli with 
a significant smile, “ though your passive presence would be desirable 
enough.” 

“My passive presence! ’Faith, your Italianship is more deep in the 
fairy land of mystery than I in that of Cupid, forj am beyond my depth 
already, unless you mean that my body is wanted without my more im- 
material part.” 

“ Not so much out of your depth, after all,” returned the other, drily ; 

“ but now 1 think of it, l shall leave you to your own discoveries— assisted 
by Mademoiselle Schvolen, for of course you spend the evening there ?” 

“ Of course I do not,” said the count impatiently. 

“ Corpo di Bacco ! I trust there is no quarrel. Not spend the evening 
there ! It will spoil the smartest piece of pleasantry that we have under- 
taken since you have deserted us.” 

“ Most mysterious Maravelli!” cried De Mara, “excuse the allitera- 
tion, and do, for Heaven’s sake, explain this wonderful secret that requires 
the use of my body without my soul.” 

“ On one condition— that you spend the evening with your mistress.” 

“Humph!” exclaimed the nobleman, “I can hardly oblige you in that.” 

“ Now this is a hard case. Here have we been beseeching your lordship 
for an evening these three months, and it was always, ‘excuse me, I must 
wait upon the lady ;’ and now when we have found out a way to make this 
answer-perpetual available, you are as unaccommodating the other way.” 

“ Have I not told you already that I intend to dedicate this evening to 
you and my old party, and you refuse to have me : — who is it now that is 
unaccommodating ?” 

“ Well, I will compromise. You shall know my secret on condition 
that wherever we go to-night, you give us full privelege to take you alon® 
with us.” ° 

“ A bargain,” cried De Mara, “ and now for the arcanum ?” 

“ Thus it is ; — but see there be no frowning. I need not tell you how 
scandalously you have deserted your former Knot of associates for this 


ORPHANS OF UN WALDEN. 


1S1 


Madonna of the road-side inn. Patient creatures that we were, we bore it 
till endurance became a failing, rather than a virtue ; and last night we 
determined to celebrate your obsequies.” 

“ My what ?” exclaimed De Mara. 

“ Surely, there is nothing remarkable,” answered the other, “ that a 
man’s friends, when they find that he is irretrievably dead, should wish to 
pay a last tribute, and honour him with a memento mori. ,y 

“ The dead man returns you his most humble acknowledgments,” cried 
the count, and he took off his hat while making a low reverence to Mara- 
velli. 

“ Pray put on your hat again,” said he with a mock gravity, “ lest the 
dead man take cold. And now listen while I tell you how tenderly we 
j mean to deal with your memory.” 

“ But would it not have been as w'ell to have taken evidence as to my 
decease, before you dealt in your tender mercies ?” 

“ Evidence ! The cause was as clearly proved as the death of St. Jan- 
uarius. / was the first witness, and not only showed how many hundred 
! times you had been summoned to our councils w 7 ithout # 'coming, but w 7 as 
able to depose that you w r ere so very dead that you had actually neglected 
to pay that trifling wager you lost on the day this cursed infatuation over- 
took you : let me tell you, this last point had very great weight indeed.” 

“ Of course, after so satisfactory a deposition, no further testimony w as 
required,” observed the count. 

“None was felt to be necessary; but to place every thing beyond the 
doubting of a sceptic, Mon Petit stepped forward, and stated that six 
weeks ago he addressed a letter to you, requiring your advice in a little 
love-affair of his own, which letter remained unanswered up to the very 
moment at which he was speaking. This also w 7 as thought most impor- 
tant evidence ; for it was universally agreed that when De Mara forgot to 
proffer advice in a matter that concerned love and women, he must be lost 
to all animation.” 

“ There is something in that, to be sure,” muttered the count ; “ and so 
you were satisfied ?” 

“ The third and last witness was no other than Altoz, who returned but 
yesterday from his journey, and like a true and faithful liege presented 
himself to the Knot immediately. He stated a thousand facts to prove 
that you had expired at least three months ago, and assured us he was so 
convinced of it, that when he arrived near Rheims, he rode over to your 
chateau for the express purpose of ordering the house to be shut up, and a 
hatchment with your coat of arms to be suspended over the door : the only 
hope to be gathered from his statement was that insinuated in the ‘ Resur- 
gam’ which he ordered to be painted underneath in letters of two inches 
and a half.” 

“And so the Knot have set themselves up as undertakers and uphold- 
ers after all?” cried De Mara; “I wish them joy of their new calling. 
But may I be allowed to ask to what particular use my body is to be ap- 
plied, since you seem so anxious to have the loan of it for this evening?” 

“ That,” replied Maravelli, “ brings me back to the obsequies. After 
it was universally agreed that you were decidedly dead, poor Altoz, almost 
in tears for the loss of his departed friend, proposed that we should honour 
your memory with a public testimonial.” 

“ The devil !” cried the count; “this is a little too much ; what passes 
in your own carousal-room is all fair play ; but a public testimonial — ” 

“ The difficulty was felt ; and your friends, tender of you, even though 
dead, agreed that the matter should be arranged allegorically, so that while 
their consciences were satisfied, no further exposure of your unhappy end 
should be bruited abroad.” 


132 


transfusion: or, the 


“ How infinitely kind ! but the Lord have .mercy on any thin" in the 
shape of an allegory coming from such a band of unimaginative messieurs 

“ Ingratitude ! rank ingratitude ! But hear our delicate invention, and 
blush at its recital. After the discussion of numerous suggestions, that of 
Mon Petit was at length accepted. It ran thus: — That the whole Knot 
should accoutre themselves in becoming sables, and proceed this evening 
to the spot where it was held to be certain your body was interred ; though 
it seems we miscalculated this point, for we held it to be sure that it was 
deposited at the lodgings of Mademoiselle Schvolen ; and, after declaring 
the patent of your titles and honours, sing a solemn dirge as a requiem to 
your wandering and unhappy spirit.” 

“ But you forget that Geneva is not Venice,” cried De Mara ; “ and that 
instead of tracking the moonlit wave in your reflected gondola, the cold 
stones of the street must have been your theatre of representation, with 
the amiable prospect of the night-watch coming upon you every moment, 
in whose ears dulcet sounds are but ill-omened, and who call music a dis- 
turbance, entitling the performers to a lodging gratis in the guard -house 
for the night.” 

“ That was thought of, too; but we deemed it worth while running the 
risk of having a scampering match with those worthies, to pay so much 
respect to our deceased associate : besides, even if detained, we calculated 
on softening their obdurate hearts when we told them of your many virtues 
and good qualities. And besides, again, who would not submit to the 
martyrdom of a night in the guard-house to do honour to the departed 
merits of De Mara in an allegory that he alone could have excelled ?” 

“ Prodigiously allegorical on my faith !” exclaimed De Mara : “ so the 
plan was to break in on my endeavours to carry the girl, and perhaps 
overturn all my prospects, by throwing an air of ridicule on my attentions. 
Upon my word, I am inexpressibly obliged to Mon Petit for his ingenuity, 
and to the Knot for their connivance in the absurdity. Under favour, I 
shall make bold to give these merry mourners a hint of my feeling on the 
subject.” 

Maravelli, who saw that the count was ruffled at the project, and had no 
inclination to draw on himself his indignation, which he felt it would be 
much easier to bear when shared among his fellows, made no immediate 
reply to this remark ; and the two walked forward towards the usual place 
of rendezvous of the associates without further converse. De Mara, by 
what has been detailed, had his thoughts naturally carried back to Made- 
line, and, once engaged on that interesting subject, the other became but 
of secondary consideration. Ever active in making every thing and every 
body that came across his path subservient to the scheme that he had so 
much at heart, he could not help taxing his imagination to find out some 
way in which these burlesque preparations that were to have been con- 
verted into missiles for his own head, might be rendered serviceable to the 
position in which his affair with the orphan now stood ; and by the time he 
reached the place of meeting with his quondam associates, he thought he 
saw a way in which the frolic of the night might be of use. 

In consequence of the delay which had been occasioned to Maravelli by 
his conversation with the count, they found, on entering the salon , that the 
rest of the party were assembled. 

No sooner did De Mara make his appearance, than Mon Petit, with a 
well-executed start and aspect of fright, exclaimed, “ A ghost ! a ghost !” 
and ran away to hide himself behind the window-curtain that hung nearest 
to him. 

“ I cannot help feeling,” said De Mara gravely, “ what a pity it is to 
check any facetiousness on the part of Mon Petit ; for it is so seldom that 
he can amass any for the benefit of his friends, that under other circum- 


orphans of unwalden. 


1S3 


stances I should be disposed to respond to his ‘ a ghost ! a ghost !’ by ‘ a 
miracle! a miracle!’ — but, gentlemen, I request your serious attention for 
one minute : I trust I may command so much of your former friendship V* 

The gravity of his manner effectually checked a score of good-feMow 
jokes that were on the point of being let off at his entry, and the silence 
of the party showed him how easy it was for him to assume at will that 
popular influence he had possessed over them before he gave them the slip 
so unceremoniously at the road-side inn. 

“ My good friends,” continued he, as soon as he saw that he had secured' 
to himself a silent hearing ; “my good friends — for I trust you all know 
enough of De Mara to believe, that though he may be deluded awhile by 
the ignis fnluus of a beauteous woman, he still leaves his heart among you, 
as a pledge that he himself— business accomplished — will return with re- 
doubled pleasure to your companionship ; — I am among you to-night — first 
to explain, and next to petition. Maravelli has been relating to me the 
plan for this evening. 1 must take upon myself to tell you — even though 
my petition shall fail through it — that it is of that I complain, and most 
grievously. I will not deny that I have neglected you, apparently at least, 
though I think you ought to have known me well enough to feel that there 
is no one honour in this world that I so deeply prize, as that of belonging to 
the Knot, in the formation of which, I may take credit to myself for having 
been an active partisan ; but the excellence of a judgment is to apportion 
the castigation to the offence. Now, consider for one moment, what you 
were about to do with the expectation of finding me at Mademoiselle Sclivo- 
len’s ; you intended to proceed thither for the purpose of exciting her 
attention and mine to vour ceremonies. What would have been the con- 
sequence ? For any thing that you have the -power to guard against, it 
might have produced an irretrievable rupture between the girl and me : 
she might have resented such a public display personally on me, as emana- 
ting from my friends, and the whole of my past toils would have been 
undone by a crude and ill-digested frolic. This, too, ought to have been 
the more manifest to you, foria moment’s consideration might have told 
you that my continued absence could only arise from the failure of my 
attack upon her ; and, consequently, that any measure of my friends, cal- 
culated to give her dissatisfaction, was likely to be turned to my disadvan- 
tage. I trust 1 have said enough to convince you that my position is 
correct, and that in complaining of it I have been guilty of no breach of 
the Knot-privilege.” 

A general murmur of assent broke from the assembly, and Mon Petit 
was forward to make his acknowledgements of contrition at having been 
the main promoter of the project. 

“Then,” replied De Mara, “ assist the petition which I am about to 
proffer, and more than amends will be made ; but in making the request 
you will hear anon, 1 trust you will allow it to be understood, that, no ques- 
tions as to my motives are to be asked. I have already dropped sufficient 
to show you that I am not so successful in my present undertaking as I 
could wish ; and if I am to flatter myself that the true meaning and intent 
of your proposed frolic was an indication of your desire to have me once 
more among you, 1 have a still better claim to call for your aid, as in pro- 
moting my success you will be hastening my re-appearance in this your 
hall of mirth. But to the petition, which is simply this — that having con- 
sented to put aside the obsequies with which you were about to honour my 
memory, and receive my living self again among you, you will render a 
second obligation to the returned prodigal, by giving him your voices to- 
night in a serenade instead of a dirge; and. as a reward, he will cede to 
you the privilege of performing it on the very spot where you proposed to 
immortalize him with a requiem.” 

51—4 


134 


transfusion: or, the 


This proposition was hailed with universal pleasure ; for the only draw- 
back to giving up the original scheme was a feeling of disappointment at 
not being able to enjoy the night's frolic. 

“But,” cried Maravelli, “you forget, De Mara, that we are in Geneva, 
and not in Venice.” 

“ And you forget,” replied the count, “that the scheme is worth a scam- 
pering match with the night-watch.” 

“ To be sure it is,” cried Mon Petit ; “ that will be the best part of the 
whole— what Herr Sassenhogt would call a running accompaniment to the 
serenade. So come, De Mara, produce your words, and we will have copies 
distributed, and adopt the plan at once.” 

“ Ten minutes’ law, if you please, gentlemen ; the words are not yet 
written ; but prepare your cloaks and guitars, and I will be with you anon 
to claim the poet’s laurel at your hands.” 

In little more than the time for which he had stipulated, De Mara made 
his appearance with a paper in his hand. “ Before I read my hasty effort,” 
said he, “I must again remind you of the bargain on which 1 have accepted 
your services — that no questions are to be asked as to what the lines may 
allude to.” 

The assent of the party being given to this arrangement, the count read 
to them the following lines, which he proposed by way of 

SERENADE. 

My lady love, the moon is high, 

Sweeping the greenly-tinted sky ; 

Her tranquil light sheds silver ray 
On wood and wave that underlay. 

Fairy elves keep watch and ward, 

To mould the beams that touch the swaro. 

And with the bubbles dightly star 
Titania’s giddy and pellucid car. 

But yonder, wind-borne, floats a cloud, 

The smile on Dian’s face to shroud ; 

Darkness all the earth embays, - 
No longer deck’d with Dian’s rays : 

The tiny fairies droop their head, 

And hurry to their dew-sprent bed ; — 

Or, crouching in some moss-grown court, 

Beshrcw the spiteful cloud that checks their sport. 

Thou art my moon, my lady love, 

And in thy gleam alone [ move ; 

But, lo ! the light thou shed’st is paled, 

And all my instinct heart is quail’d. 

Oh, let it be but passing gloom 
That overhangs my tristful doom ; 

Dissolve the angry clouds that frown, 

And re- assert thy ray-emitting crown, 

Tncf'C lines were received with all the favour which any thing comin» 
from De Mara was sure to obtain from his companions; and under tho 
superintendence of Maravelli, whose readiness on the occasion would have 
done honour to Sassenhogt himself, it was arranged to an air of Martini, 
with which the vocal strength of the party was sufficiently acquainted, to 
be able to make a decent figure in it after one or two experiments. 

Thus tutored, they sallied forth from their hall of rendezvous ; and that 1 



ORPHANS OP UNWALDEN. 


135 


they might not excite attention sooner than was necessary, they took dif- 
ferent ways in parties of two and three to the street where Madeline’s abode 
was situated. The count’s heart beat high when, as he arrived opposite her 
dwelling, he perceived a light in her sitting-room ; and still higher did it 
beat, when the illumination within enabled him to trace the shadows of two 
persons moving to and fro. Could it be that Wahrend— the happy unknown 
villager— was still there at that late period ? It was long past the hour 
when even he, favoured lover as he had been, had been expected to with- 
draw for the night, since the decease of Deboos had made Madeline watch- 
ful o her own proprieties; and yet if it were not Wahrend, who could it 
be ? — Albert ? He hoped so, and yet hardly dared flatter himself that the 
conjecture was correct, so well did he know 7 that the darling custom of the 
youth was to bury himself deep in the solitude of his own chamber, without 
book or candle, and there brood over his own impenetrable reveries. If pos- 
sible, however, he was determined to discover to whom that shadow be- 
longed ; and he rejoiced that his accidental rencontre with the Italian had 
suggested to him a means by which he might be able to attract the inmates 
of the apartment to the window ; to do which the more effectually, he re- 
solved to take no part in the serenade, lest Madeline’s quick sense should 
catch his voice. 

By this time all were arrived ; and the signal being given by Maravelli, the 
vocalists began their task. Up to that moment not a sound had been heard 
in the street ; all was hush, and, to mortal appearance, as inanimate as the 
face of the broad moon that looked down upon them with all the fulness 
of her midnight lustre, as though willing to receive the tribute that De 
Mara’s essay offered to her beauty. The voices of those who sung were 
of a sweet and flexible tone ; and the habit which prevailed with the asso- 
ciates of spending a large portion of their meetings in such harmonious 
amusements, gave a happy unison and finish to their joint endeavours. 

The count, who had stationed himself in a deep and shady angle of the 
street, had waited for the first notes of the serenade with the impatience of 
a man who was expecting from their effect the solution of a harassing and 
knotty riddle. They commenced, and his eye became unalterably fixed on 
the pair of shadows that were still reclining against the muslin curtains that 
excluded the passing stranger from penetrating into the interior of the apart- 
ment When first the stilly night was wakened from her gentle slumber 
by the concord of sweet sounds that stole upon her silence, the shadows, 
that heretofore had flitted to and fro, as though the substantial forms from 
which they emanated were pacing the floor of the chamber, became sta- 
tionary and fixed as the gaze of their anxious watcher. De Mara hailed it 
as a good omen of the song having attracted their attention, and his became 
more zealous in return. Presently the light curtain of the nearest window 
was seen quickly to move — the window opened— and some one protruded 
into the balcony. “ It is a man’s form,” muttered the nobleman to himself, 
as he endeavoured to satisfy his mind of i chat man’s form it was. But the 
substance was nearly as obscure and undefined as the shadow had been ; 
and it was in vain that he stretched his powers of sight to the uttermost, to 
gain knowledge of the person. Whoever it might be, he leaned over the 
balcony for an instant, as if in the act of intense listening, and then sud- „ 
denly rose to his height again. De Mara, who reckoned each action with 
that nicety of observation, which the tiger pourtrays as she screws each 
muscle to its highest function to dart upon her victim, fancied this last 
movement was indicative of the figure being about to retire— perhaps, to 
return no more. Such suspense was intolerable ; and, forgetful of his resolu- 
tion to keep beyond the illumination of the moon’s ray, he darted forward 
to ascertain, by nearer approach, who it was that commanded the right of 
being in the possesion of Madeline’s apartment at such an hour of night : 


136 


transfusion: or, the 


he looked — he recognised — and his breast heaved high, as though casting 
off some huge and onerous load, while his lips involuntarily gave utterance 
to the words “ Albert ! thank Heaven !” 

It comes within’man’s nature when he has intently set his mind on one 
sole object, to feel at its satisfactory completion more than the gain will 
warrant. Thus with De Mara ! So much had he feared that the night 
companion of his mistress was one whose presence would make him trem- 
ble, that when the re-action came by which his imagination was relieved 
from that dread, he admitted more joy than the ascertained position had a 
right to justify. So the red-hot gamester, who has lost sum after sum the 
long night through, feeds his spirit with unreasonable hope when at length 
a solitary stake is won, little dreaming of the despair that is to be his when — 
the sitting finished — he casts up the fearful balance of his losings. 

De Mara had rightly interpreted the meaning of Albert’s motion ; it was 
to retire — but only for the purpose of summoning his sister. She, little 
dreaming for whom the night music was intended, obeyed the call ; and 
again Albert with deep intensity of feeling is leaning over the balcony, as 
though he would drink music’s charmed cup to the very dregs. His eager 
eye beams with fire borrowed from the brain, and he clenches the rail that 
supports him, as one who is suddenly transported beyond the strength of 
his nature. 

The count no sooner traced the fairy form of his mistress in the balcony, j 
than he became anxious that she should be made aware whence the music j 
emanated, and in whose honour the serenade was given. The performers 
had just concluded the second stanza ; and as they commenced the third 
De Mara’s voice, so well known, and so melodious in the maiden’s ears, 
joined in its place. Madeline recognised it in a moment, and the reco^ni- j 
tion explained to her in the like short space of time the whole purport and 
intent of the performance : for an instant after the mystery was solved to i 
her, she lingered in the balcony, as though it required an effort on her part 
to drag herself away from that which had ever been her chief food of love 
and then, with a whisper to Albert to follow her example, she drew back I 
within the recess of the window. 

But that whisper the brother heard not, or heeded not. His whole sense ; 
of hearing was consecrate to the sounds that fed his passion ; and the rest i 
of his faculties lay entranced and helpless, as though they were of no avail. 

De Mara understood the action of his mistress, and his heart, that had 
just been beating so high at ascertaining Wahrend’s absence, now sank ! 
again to find that she shrank from receiving any token of devotion from ! 
him. He ceased to sing, and the harmony of his companions was but as 
discord to his hearing. 

Maravelli was just trilling out the last notes of the serenade, and con- 
templating a wind-up with a peculiar flourish of his owm when Mon Petit, 
who had been all along not a little nervous as to their final destination for 
the night— and, in his fear of the night-guard coming upon them, thought 
each bush an officer’— exclaimed, “ The guard !-the guard !-I hear their 
tread and heavy heels at the corner of the street.” 

This flurried and ominous announcement produced an immediate sensa- 
tion among the Knot. Each took to flight in the direction where escape 
seemed most feas.ble : it was in vain that Maravelli, called out to them at 
least to finish the serenade before they fled ; no one heeded the despairing 
tone in which he urged the request ; and he himself, at length imbibing the 
night-guard panic that had seized upon his friends, joined the train of fugi- 
tives ; though, true to his faith to the last, he sang as he ran, till his want of 
breath brought his notes down to something little better than a snorting sort 
of fugue. & 

The count, who had been disturbed in his impatient reverie on Made- 


GRPHAN6 OF UNWALDEN. 


187 


line’s waywardness, by the sudden exclamation of Mon Petit, and- the con- 
sequent bustle of his companions, unconsciously imitated their example, 
and because they ran, ran himself. Nor did he stop till he found himself 
beyond the boundaries of the city and its suburbs, and close upon the bor- 
ders of the mighty lake that looked iike some Leviathan inward sea, 
stretching its broad and ample face to court the gaze of the night-luminary 
that tipt with sparkling silver each rippling of its waters. The tranquillity 
and undisturbed repose of the scene recalled him to attend to outward ob- 
jects. He ceased the mechanical speed by which he had so rapidly out- 
stripped his companions, and, looking round, he found he w as alone. 

His mind was so deeply involved in the circumstances connected with 
his progress with Madeline, that he could afford but a faint smile at the 
recolleetion of the cause which had thus broken up his party of camaradas , 
and brought himself so unexpectedly to the dwelling of solitude and 
silence. The smile given, las mind again reverted to that which had prin- 
cipally occupied his thoughts for so many months, and was now more 
peremptory there than ever ; and he thanked the opportunity which allow- 
ed him, without fear of interruption, to wander along the moonlit banks 
of the lake, and ruminate in commune with his ow n soul on those mea- 
sures, which his fertile brain suggested as best calculated to counteract the 
marring step he had adopted, in provoking Madeline’s heart from that train 
of love which he had taken so much pains to lay. 

Slowly he paced the shore, and minutely he laboured in his mind each 
point that was to be urged on behalf of his again being on a right under- 
standing with the object of his pursuit. Every possible move in his game of 
love was passed in review on the board, but it seemed to his discontented 
spirit as if every check w T as black, and every suggestion oniy a further step 
towards the losing of the game. Now it was that he— a desperate game- 
ster at Cupid’s hazard — found opportunity to cast up the amount of his 
stakes ; and now it was that, in ascertaining the sum of his losses, the 
short-lived joy he had obtained in being assured of Wahrend’s absence be- 
came evanescent, and as nought in the sweeping balance against him. 

True it was that Wahrend in his belief w as not in Madeline’s apartment 
at midnight: but what proof was that that lie was not in her heart ? He 
had watched them keenly at the Plain Palais, and looks had passed be- 
tween them that had left a deep and painful impression on his memory, so 
that he hardly dared to trust himself to think at all on the prospect:— to 
think calmly on it was beyond his power ; all lay enveloped in such op- 
pressive obscurity. “ Fair queen of evening,” exclaimed he, as he turned 
his gaze upwards to the orb that sailed the heavens in all the fullness of 
her majesty :— fair queen of evening ! Qh that the light w'as mine, or that 
I might wield thee as Perseus did of old his Gorgon shield, and, by turning 
your = illumined front on her who harasses and delights in the self-same 
instant, penetrate the veritable thoughts that lie deep imbedded in her 
bosom.” 

Well might he so address the mistress of the skies ! Brightly she shone 
as just a month before she had made clear the wandering steps of Albert, 
when he rushed from the concert-room with all the ecstacy of music tumul- 
tuous in his soul : half that month had seen her dwindle from the face of 
earth till no more than a fine and horned thread marked her ‘ diminished 
head and now the same space of time had once again regenerated her, 
and forth she blazed in the mid-heaven in all her pristine glory. 

But a rude and sudden sound all on the instant broke De Mara’s train ol 
thought. It fell upon his ear, as though some heavy and massive thing 
had been dashed upon the surface of the lake. Awakened from himseil, 
he listens, and the first full sound is follow'ed by a gurgling of the water, as 
if subsidino- after the violent rupture it had undergone. Then another 
4 * 


133 


transfusion: or, the 


sound comes upon his ear ; ’tis like the convulsive struggling of a living 
thing beating the surface in despair, till, sinking below, the noise is dead* 
ened and removed. Once, twice, thrice, the same perception reached the 
nobleman ; while his eye, directed by his ear, is enabled to perceive some- 
thing half above the surface of the waves, half-immersed in their broad and 
engulfing bosom. 

De Mara, though a cold-hearted creature of the world, was no misan- 
thrope. The thought was upon him that it was a human being in the last i 
agony of drowning ; and full of the hasty impulses of humanity, he plung- 
ed into the lake, and swam towards the spot whither his attention had been 
directed. As he approached he found that his conjecture was right, for he 
could trace in part the shape of a human figure just sinking beneath the 
surface of the stream. The confirmation of his expectation threw vigour 
into all his muscles, and he struck out bold and strong. Swiftly his ner- 
vous limbs ploughed a track through the obedient waters : at each stroke 
his elevated head rose high above the surface, as though the force of his 
skilful action was used to enable him to take a surer survey of the object 
that lay stretched inanimately before him ; and, even at the very moment 
when the waves seemed to be opening a capacious gap to receive their un- 
resisting prey, the firm right hand of the dextrous swimmer snatched it 
from its destiny, while his whole frame was exerted in bearing it slowly, 
but surely, to the distant bank, that almost seemed to be in traitorous con- 
cert with its sister water, and to recede in spite of De Mara’s best efforts 
to land his burden. At length the shore was gained ; and the count, nearly 
exhausted with the struggle he had had to encounter, could do little more 
than roll his prize beyond the reach of the waters. A few minutes, how- 
ever, re-invigorated his strength, and he was able again to tu-rn his atten- 
tion to the body that lay before him. It was that of an athletic man, of a 
short and stunted figure, clad in the usual humble costume of the country. 
Round his neck was clasped the collar of a cloak so tightly, that it requir- 
ed some effort from his preserver to unfasten it : this, however, explained 
in some measure why the body had floated so long on the surface, for the 
count perceived in a moment that it would have taken some minutes for the 
element to saturate and destroy the buoyant qualities of the huge expanse 
of cloth, so as to permit the substance which it upheld to assert its gravity 
beneath the waters. But still the being, whoever he might be, remained 
motionless and inanimate, and De Mara felt that there yet remained much 
to be done to complete his task in a happy issue. As for other aid than his 
own, it was hopeless ; the night had relapsed into its former silence, and 
look which way he would, he could see neither villa nor cot that might 
afford hope of hospitable succour. Of surgical knowledge the count could 
not make much boast, but he remembered something of the old-fashioned 
maxirn of rolling the body, or suspending it by the heels till it voided the 
superfluous fluid that had been swallowed — and for want of better hope he 
commenced this task ; but the undertaking to suspend the body with the 
head downwards required some sort of prop by which to steady the 
balance ; and, on looking round him, an old wood-work jetty presented 
itself as the object best fitted for such a use : the position justified his ex- 
pectation, for almost immediately the stomach was relieved from a vast 
quantity of the fluid that had been swallowed, and the lungs heaved with 
something between a sigh and a groan. The body was now suffered to be 
extended on the ground, and it soon began to give still more pregnant 
symptoms of approaching re-animation. De Mara anxiously noted 3 each 
token as it appeared : the chest vibrating with newly recovered breath, the 
involuntary twitching of the limbs, the play of the lips, as though endea- 
vouring to modulate" human sounds, the shifting eyes that seemed to be 
practising to regain that rapid and unforced motion which constitutes one of 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 189 

the wonders of that most wondrous organ — all confirmed the hope within 
him that the life of a human being had been saved. 

( But at length the hope became certainty. The stranger half raised his 
head from the ground, gazed wildly at his preserver, and exclaimed in 
broken accents, “ You have kept your promise, then. I thought you had 
forgotten that this was our night of meeting.” 

“ My good fellow,” cried the count, “I am afraid you have not yet 
gathered back your fleeting senses. Rest quiet awhile.” 

“ Why, no; it is not the voice. Yet who else but one who was bound 

I under the sanction of a promise should be in such a place at such an hour ?” 
“ Take my advice,” replied the count, “ and do not harass your thoughts 
at the present moment. The peril you have so narrowly escaped has un- 
i nerved you.” 

“Peril! — peril! — ah, now I remember the whole. But what is this? 
Dry land, when I should be deep in the waters ! what does it all mean ?” 

“ It means that you must ask no questions till you are more tranquil. 
\ Do you think that you are strong enough to walk ?” 

“ Ay, that I am ! — and strong enough to climb to yon old jetty’s height 
again, and take a second leap and he arose from the ground, not 'with- 
out some little effort, though it was apparent that he was rapidly recovering 
all his former powers. 

De Mara laid his hand gently on his shoulder as he said, “ I know not 
I how strong your body may be, but your words evidently show that your 
I mind has not yet recovered its tone, or you would never dwell on such mad- 
ness a second time.” 

“ Sir, do you know me ?” cried the stranger abruptly. 

“ I cannot say I do,” replied the count, somewhat puzzled at his manner. 
“ Then how comes it you pretend to know my affairs better than I do 
myself? did you ever hear of the proverb ‘ every man his own physician ?’ ” 
“Perhaps I have; and so have many dead men, if they could tell all.” 

“ And living ones too,” returned the other, .“ who, but for adopting the 
[: hint, would be in your friends’— the dead men’s place. I am one of those 
who acknowledge its truth; and what if I came to the conclusion that 
drowning was good for me ?” 

“ Why, in that case,” replied De Mara with a smile, “you were likely 
; to prove another maxim, that — ‘ good is sometimes ill.’ ” 

“Ah, sir, I find you are as ready as Sancho Panza at a proverb; so 1 
leave you to your learning, and beg that this time I may be allowed to tako 
my bath by myself.” 

“ For Heaven’s sake,” cried the count, astonished at the man's auda- 
cious infatuation, “ do not be so mad !” 

“Mad again! Hark-ye, my cork jacket, which is better of the two? 
To die filled with water in a couple of minutes, or to die filled with nothing 
on the starving system of a couple of weeks ? I have neither ducat, franc, 
nor stiver wherewith to purchase a spoonful of poor man’s broth, and I 
have no ambition to walk the earth till I am reduced to a ready-made spe- 
cimen for a school of anatomy.” 

“ But have you no friends ?” 

“Friends!” cried the Reckless with a fearful shout ; — “ who ever heard 
of friends for the sans six sons? No, sir, the only acquaintances I can 
hope to make are the hangman or the whipper-in of poor devils at the 
cart’s tail ; and I have long been of opinion that it is best not to be on 
speaking terms with such ill-favoured gentry.” 

“ But perhaps you might find a friend in me,” cried the count, anxious 
to urge any thing that might break down the fellow’s desperate resolution. 

“ Turn your face to the moon,” cried he, “ that I may read it. Humph ! 
so far, so good , — no, that’s an ugly line — but there’s a good one set against 


140 


TRANSFUSION : OR, THE 




it ; — so perhaps 1 may find a friend in you ; and now I think of it, it is the 
only satisfaction you can render me for the infernal piece of impertinence 
you have been guilty of in baling my body out of the lake, as if it were 
no better than a sack of cheese-paring.” 

“ Certainly, my new-found half-drowned friend,” cried the count, a little 
nettled at the unceremoniousness of his remarks, “you have a most win- 
ning way of insinuating your rights. But come, a thought strikes me that 
we may be mutually useful to one another : therefore, on condition that 
you furnish me with your company to-night, I engage to find you a supper, 
and five gold louis for your present use.” 

“ A bargain,” cried the other, voraciously ; “ but mind, l warn you that 
your offer is equal at least to ten louis, for my appetite, never contempti- 
ble, has the peculiar recommendation this evening of being whetted with 
a three days’ fast.” 

“ Well, 1 admit the honesty of your warning, but feel the more bound 
to stand to the bargain ; and I hope you may find more satisfaction in 
swallowing mine host’s viands, than the cold cheer on which I found you 
feeding when 1 first had the honour of making your acquaintance.” 

“ Never fear, most noble gentleman,” replied the stranger, “ for though 
neither meal will be at my own expense, I know how to pay more respect 
to one so handsomely volunteered on your part than that on which I forced 
myself so unceremoniously, and at a moment’s warning.” 

“ But how about our clothes ? — 1 begin to find mine somewhat chilly.” 

“We will walk the quicker, and I doubt not a change may be found for 
you at our house of eating, wherever you may please to appoint it : and, 
for myself, the devil may care before 1 shall give a thought to what is on 
the outside, as long as I can line my interior with fat capon and smoking 
provender.” 

“ Come then,” cried the count, “ the sooner we start, the sooner we shall 
be there — and the two proceeded side by side at a rapid pace towards 
Geneva. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

Ay, mark the plot. Not any circumstance 
That stood within the reach of the design, 

Of persons, dispositions, matter, time, 

Or place, but by this brain of mine was made 
An instrumental help ; yet nothing from 
The induction to the accomplishment 

Or done of purpose, seemed forced but by accident. — O ld Plat. 

The pace at which the count and his new-formed acquaintance strode 
along was not very well suited to conversation, and they therefore proceed- 
ed a considerable part of the road in silence. De Mara employed the 
opportunity in endeavouring to conjecture from the dialogue that had taken 
place, what sort of a being it was whom he had so suddenly enlisted into 
his company ; and now that the first enthusiasm of saving fellow-crea- 
ture’s life had somewhat gone off, he did not find much to gratify him in 
such tokens and symbols as the stranger had thought fit to exhibet This 
was not the first time the nobleman had heard of, or even met with men 
who affected a hatred towards mankind, and amongst that number, to- 
wards themselves, and whose mouths flamed with fine-worded resolutions 
of calling on death to release them from their sorrows, and seeking the 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


141 


refuge of the grave from the troublous annoyance of the world. But the 
present specimen seemed to be one of misanthrophy without sentiment — 
of worldly contempt without redeeming grace ; and the more he dwelt on 
the words that had been uttered by the strange good-for-nought whose life 
he had preserved, the less reason he found to congratulate himself on the 
success of his effort. With this feeling came the thought whether he should 
not at once get quit of his companion, and leave him to rid himself of his 
troubles as he might list ; but this, as often as it recurred, was checked by 
the idea of which he had already dropped a hint to the man — that they 
might perhaps be mutually useful to each other. The ill success of his 
project on Madeline had made him deeply feel the loss of Deboos ; and the 
reckless manner in which this half-drowned stoic had reprobated his inter- 
ference, even to save him from the very fangs of death, had originated the 
thought in his mind that one so daring, so audacious, and so unbending, 
might be of service to him either in suggesting some plan that should be of 
use, or at least in executing any thing that might require intrepidity or 
carelessness of the world’s law from its agent. 

While these thoughts were fluctuating in his brain, the mysterious and 
uncouth creature who formed this chief matter of them strode on a little in 
advance and silently, nor ever turned his head to see whether his com- 
panion tracked the same course which he had taken. The same even 
rapid pace still marked his progress — the same downcast lowering of the 
head into the collar of his cloak rendered his shape scarcely more than a 
moving lumbering mass ; and no change in his manner could be observed, 
but that as he approached nearer and nearer to the environs of the city, he 
drew his large and ample cloak in still closer folds around his form, and his 
head sank still lower and lower beneath its upper part, so that the child of 
superstition whose fancy loves best to look at all dark things askant, might 
almost have pictured the object that pressed forward so rapidly as some 
headless and preternatural bugbear of nature. 

At length he halted, that De Mara might reach his side. 

“ Friend of drowned men and of suppers,” he said, “ yonder is Geneva : 
I can smell the busy haunts of men, and it comes upon the sense like the 
narrow and unvvholsome odour of a jail. If so poor a man as myself may 
presume to petition so rich a man as you, I would prefer a request that the 
promised eatables for which my appetite is more than prepared, may be ob- 
tained at the first house to which we come.” 

“Just as you will,” replied the count, secretly glad at a proposal which 
prevented his having to parade the streets of Geneva in company with so 
lll-favonred a follower, “ but I suspect we shall find some difficuly in find- 
ing any place to receive us at so late an hour.” 

“If I may be constituted guide, I will undertake to lead the way to a 
house fully competent to serve up a supper for a prince, provided it be paid 
for in a princely way.” 

“ Agreed !” cried De Mara ; “I promise you that this night there shall 
be limits neither to the quality nor the quantity of the supply which your 
appetite demands.” 

“ Then be pleased to follow me down this turning,” said the other, who 
during the last words of the count had made another full stop at a corner 
where a dark and dismal lane emptied itself into the main road along which 
they had hitherto been walking. 

“ With all my heart,” rejoined the count ; “ though it must be confessed 
that the lane is, like yourself, very independent of outside appearances.” 

The stranger made no answer to this remark of his patron, but strode or 
as lustily as before ; while the count, who found the intricacies of the way 
even greater than he had anticipated, was obliged to give all nis attention to 
the course which his leader adopted j for their line of march was chiefly 


TRANSFUSION : OR, THE 


142 

delineated by a long and high wall, and the moon, which had by this time 
descended from her midnight height, cast from it a heavy shadow across 
their path. As soon as the wall finished, the count found himself in the 
neighbourhood of a cluster of houses of no very promising appearance, and ; 
it was at the door, of one of these that his guide made a stand. 

“ This is the land of milk and honey,” exclaimed he ; “ shall 1 demand 
admission ?'* 

“ The sooner the better,” said De Mara, “ for I shall not be sorry to throw 
aside my damp attire before the heat into which my imitation of your ramp- 
ing pace has thrown me, subsides.*’ 

The stranger on this bidding knocked at the gate, which appeared to lead 
into a sort of porch ; and, after a short pause, a thick-set jolly-looking fellow 
made his appearance at a little loop-hole that formed a sort of set-off to the 
entry. 

“ Who knocks ?” interrogated he. 

“ Put the light this way,” answered the other, “ and answer the question 
for yourself.” 

The host (if such he was) did as he was directed, and after gazing on the 
head that for the occasion was not only lifted out of its hiding-place, but 
unbonneted to afford a fairer perusal of the features, “ What ! is it you, 
master ?” exclaimed he. 

“ Whisht !” cried the other, putting his finger to his lips. 

“ Not 1 ! ” testily replied the landlord ; “ a pretty thing to whisht for a man 
without a tester in his pouch ! I told you two nights ago you could have no 
entry here ; and I marvel at your impudence to knock up a man from his 
bed only to show him a face which has poverty marked in every line of it.” 

“ Mercenary scoundrel !” muttered the other ; and then raising his voice, 
he continued, “but, my good Kobolt, hear a word in reason. If I have no 
money myself, here is a noble gentleman who will pay like a prince : — I 
tell you his garments are of ducats, and his cloak made of louis.” 

“Humph!” replied the host ; “I would there were less poetry in the 
description, for I know you of old — the less the subject will bear it, the more 
you lay on load. However, let the gentleman show himself, and I warrant 
my eye will reduce your poetic fiction to the prosaic fact of the matter.’’ 

De Mara had no relish for such an exhibition. “ Hark-ye, sirrah,” cried 
he, “ open the door of the inn, if it be an inn, or you may chance to hear of 
it from the syndic to-morrow. Do you suppose I am to stand here to have 
my -appearance scanned like a horse at a fair ? Open, I say 1” 

“That will I,” cried Kobolt, and he threw the door wide open as he added 
in a whisper to him who had been refused, “ I can draw inferences from 
words as well as from dress ; and there is the true aristocratic accent in 
your companion’s voice.” 

And then to the count, with a low bow, he said, “I beg your pardon, sir, 
for detaining you for a moment, but the lateness of the hour, and the — ” 

“ Enough, enough,” interrupted De Mara, who was afraid that the host’s 
next observation might allude to the strange companion with whom he 
appeared ; “and now satisfy this gentleman as to what supper he can have, 
and me as to what change of dress you can lend me, for I have had the ill 
fortune to be better acquainted with the Lake than the coldness of the night 
makes agreeable.” 

The landlord asked no questions, though it was easy to see from the ex- 
pression of his countenance that there was some curiosity lurking in his 
mind to know what could have led to such a chance. 

“ If you will wait on the gentleman,” said the stranger, “ I can find my 
own way to the kitchen ; and perhaps I may have the good luck to meet 
with enough in the larder to furnish my appetite with occupation till his 
honour is served.” 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


143 


“With all my heart,” replied the host ; and he led the count up an old- 
fashioned flight of stairs, that creaked heavily in answer to each footfall that 
pressed upon their well-worn boards. When they arrived on the first land- 
ing, De Mara found himself in an antique but lofty corridor, around the 
sides of which were arrayed doors that appeared to lead to the various 
i apartments on that froor. The tympans and mouldings of the doors, like 
the balustrades of the staircase, were deeply carved in the old Swiss style ; 
and the general appearance afforded every reason to believe that the house 
had seen better days and a more dignified proprietor than him who w as 
leading the count through its obscure and almost indistinguishable depart- 
ments. 

After having crossed the extensive corridor, Kobolt paused before a door, 
and, placing his hand on the lock, endeavoured to turn it: for awhile it 
resisted his efforts, and at length only moved under his strength with a 
grating and unwilling sound. When the door was opened, a cold and 
damp vapour seemed to come from the apartment, and De Mara thought he 
felt a greater chill creep over him than when he first plunged into the broad 
waters of the lake, and thus commenced the strange adventures of the night. 
Perhaps there was something in the novelty and uncouthness of his situation 
that added to the really damp draft of air that made its way from the room 
when the door was opened, and met him on the threshold : but be it what 
it might, it came simultaneously with a thought of doubt as to the position 
in which he had placed himself. Could it be possible that he had suffered 
himself to be inveigled into a den of thieves ? The idea mixed itself with 
the corporeal discomfort of the dark air that reached his frame, and he 
could not resist a half shudder at the complication. 

“ I hope your honour will excuse the apartment,” said Kobolt, observing 
the shivering of the count; “ but we are so little used to guests, that these 
rooms are scarcely looked into once in a year, and the air has time to get 
as unwholesome as it pleases. I would show your honour into my own 
room, but my wife is in bed. However, if you will wait a little, I shall not 
be a minute in fetching you a change of apparel, and then the kitchen-fire 
will set all right again in a twinkling.” 

* With these words he withdrew, and De Mara was left to his own reflec- 
tions. Again the thought passed across his mind as to what sort cf abode 
he had thus heedlessly entered. There was no want of courage in his dis- 
position ; but none but madmen or knights -errant are in the habit of suppos- 
ing that one man can fa'ee a crew ; and it was therefore with no very comfor- 
table sensations that he contemplated the sketch of night-horrors which his 
fancy, fevered by the excitement he had undergone within the last six or eight 
hours’ pictured to his “ seething brain.” That his new-found companion 
was a man ruthless of the world’s good name, there could be no question ; 
and it is the fashion to conclude, that those who are careless of “ golden 
opinions” in one way, will not be great sticklers for them in another. 
Geneva was not famous for desperadoes, but Deboos’ mysterious death, 
and Mademoiselle Basaults adventure with the robber, forced themselves 
into his memory in despite of that general reflection. The house, too, m 
which he was cooped up, had no very fascinating appearance : at all events, 
it was in strict accordance with the most approved recipe of romance-writers 
and novelists, and it only wanted a deep and hariging wood to cluster round 
it to be the site of as pretty a horror as ever was recorded. But the count’s 
mind, though doubting, was buoyant ; and he could not help flattering 
himself that., however suspicious the appearance of his companion might be, 
the landlord’s jolly temperament seemed to have nothing ot the ascetic caste 
of a midnight bird of prey about it: his refusal, too, to admit the stranger, 
even when he announced that he brought a companion with him. appeared 
to be opposed to the sinister reflections which had entered lv.s mind ; and to 


144 


TRANSFUSION .* OR, THE 


so determined a lover of the sex, the mere fact of there being a woman in the 
house, as announced by Kobolt as an apology for not showing his guest 
into his bed-room, was comforting and satisfactory. 

While these thoughts were making their way in strange disorder through 
De Mara s mind, he employed himself in taking a survey of :he apartment 
in which he had been left by his host. In general aspect it seemed to be of 
a piece with, and after the same design as the corridor and staircase; but 
the ornaments of the room were that which most attracted his attention. It 
seemed as if it had served in olden time as the armoury of the place, for on 
every side were suspended those tools and implements of slaughter which 
every considerable family in those days thought it necessary to have at 
hand, when the law was too weak to be able to repel the sudden attacks of 
malevolent neighbours. On every side were suspended helmets and breast- 1 
plates, spears and swords, daggers and coats of mail — but all so covered i 
with dust, and acted on by the moist atmosphere in which they had so long 
abided, that the dulled and lack-lu3tre steel almost refused to give back the 
unaccustomed light that De Mara passed before them, as he took cogni- i 
eanc-e of the gloomy show. 

The sight of these warlike weapons again made active the suspicions 
that were afloat in his brain, and he bethought him that it was a good 
opportunity to furnish himself with something like an instrument of de- 
fence, should matters indeed be so bad as his worst conjectures would lead 
him to believe. With this intention he singled out a sheathed dagger that 
hung from the wall in company with a shield and two-handed sword. The 
moment was tempting, and it would be easy to conceal so small a weapon 
in his dr.ess. Full of the idea, he stretched forth his hand to grasp his 
prize ; — he clutched — but in the nervous eagerness of the instant, some 
entanglement was unperceived, and, though the dagger was his, down 
came rattling sword and shield ; and a cloud of dust accompanied the clash- 
ing jingle that rang with many an echo through the empty place. 

“ Your honour is an antiquarian, I suppose ?” cried Kobolt, who at that 
moment made his appearance at the door. “ Fugh ! — why, here is as 
much dust as a troop of horse would raise in the most dusty road in Switzer- 
land after a three weeks’ drought.” 

“ I had a mind,” replied the count, somewhat hesitatingly, in being dis- 
covered in so equivocal a position — “ I had a mind to have a closer survey 
of the curious workmanship on the sheath of this dagger. The whole room 
is enough to awaken the curiosity of one who has some right to boast of his 
ancestry. In case of war, the magistracy of Geneva would do well to 
apply to you to furnish a regiment out of your own store.” 

“ Then I am sure,” replied Kobolt, “ I should be good citizen enough to 
let them have the whole at a very cheap rate. I bought them myself with 
the rest of the furniture of the house, and, as you may guess, they are a mere 
dead weight on my hands.” 

“Indeed!” cried the count ; “I have a fancy I could find you a pur- 
chaser for them, for 1 know a nobleman who prides himself on his collection 
of such things; and, indeed, it was with that thought in my mind that I 
took down this dagger : perhaps you will have no objection to let me take 
it with me on the condition of returning it in a few days, if 1 do not find you 
a purchaser.” 

“ None in the world, sir,” replied the host ; “ and I shall be more than 
obliged to you if you can recommend me to any one who will buy the lum- 
ber. He may rely on a bargain !— And now, sir, here are the clothes ; you 
will find them but plain affairs, but they are dry ; and I will wait outside 
while you make the change.” 

De Mara felt much rc-assured at the frank manner in which his host had 
yielded the dagger to him, and was soon busy in effecting the change that 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


145 


was so necessary to his comfort But still there was something in the dead- 
like silence and sombre hangings of the apartment, that forced a like feeling 
on his heart, and he determined to try his host yet further, in the hope of 
making assurance doubly sure. 

When, therefore, his change of dress was effected, he observed : “ I can- 
not help feeling a little uneasy for the friends at whose house 1 am residing, 
as they, will be alarmed at my absence. Do you think you could contrive 
to have a note conveyed to them for me ? I shall not think half-a-dozen 
louis too much for the messenger’s trouble.” 

Kobolt’s eyes twinkled at the mention of such a sum, and he replied, “ I 
will go myself on your errand as soon as I have shown you into the kitchen, 
and in half an hour you shall see me again.” 

The count expressed his acknowledgments, and, having his tablets abouc 
him, he at once wrote a few lines to Altoz, taking care to word them in 
Spanish, as the best security he could invent against their being read by 
his messenger. 

Kobolt now only stayed to usher the count into the kitchen, where they 
found the stranger deep in the enjoyment of flesh and fowl ; bones of all 
sorts lay by the side of his plate— emblematic of the havoc he had already 
committed on the contents of his host’s larder ; though, had it not been for 
such signs, the reasonable conjecture on witnessing the voracious manner 
in which he continued to devour every thing that lay spread before him, 
would have been, that he had only that moment commenced the work of 
devastation. 

“ You are well come,” cried he, as soon as he perceived their approach, 
“ for as to this wine, Kobolt, it is the vilest that the Rhine was ever guilty 
of conveying on its stream. Come — come — let us have a batch with the 
black cork. Did you think I had not been here so long as to forget the 
mark of the best ?” 

“ Indeed 1 did not,” cried Kobolt ; “ but if you will undertake to help 
yourself, it is yourself you must blame if you light on bad liqour. There,” 
he added, taking half-a-dozen bottles out of a small locker at the back of 
the settle — “there is the black cork for you, and I doubt not you have 
memory enough left to recognise the old flavour.” 

“ Ay, ay, this is it, indeed,” said the stranger ; “ I do believe it was the 
smell of this wine oozing out of your cellar that first brought me acquainted 
with your house.” 

“ Well,” returned Kobolt, “I am glad you have not lost your taste ; 
and now you must excuse me, gentlemen, for I have a little business to 
look after. I shall be with you again anon.” And then, with a side- 
glance at De Mara, as much as to say, “ you know why ! : ’ he quitted the 
room. 

De Mara’s new friend seemed hardly to have heard the words, or to 
notice the absence of his host, for his attention appeared to be once again 
wholly fixed on the creature-comforts that were strewed before him in no 
small abundance on the kitchen-table ; and it was quite a sight to the 
nobleman to watch how the man fed and drank, and then drank and fed 
again, as though his appetite was inexhaustible, and, like some water- 
mill’s never-idie wheel, was perpetually rolling round in one uncontrolla- 
ble and unsatisfied condition. 

In this manner the count sat attentive to his inviU , still expecting the 
moment when some sort of show would be made indicative of his power 
of demolishing being somewhat blunted. But when nearly half an hour 
had elapsed, and the same sort of display of devouring appeared to his 
impatience to threaten to become eternal, he could not help exclaiming, 

“ Pray, how long did you say it was since you last enjoyed the comfort of 
a supper?” 

51—5 


146 


TRANSFUSION : OR. THE 


The stranger, without looking up, replied, “ By-and-by, most mible,— 
by-and-by you shall have answers to what you list. But I should haver 
thought you were too well-mannered to interrupt a poor fellow at his de- 
votions ; and having delivered himself of this rebuke, he continued to 
make his way through flesh and fluid as though he had made some secret 
vow to himself never to pause so long as a drop or morsel remained on the 
board. 

In obedience to the suggestion of the stranger, De Mara again relapsed 
into silence ; nor did he utter another syllable till the hint was given by 
the other pushing his knife and fork from him, and taking a long and 
hearty expiration from the very bottom of his chest, as if he intended to 
signify by it a sort of confession that he had fed so largely, it was become 
necessary to thrust even the air from his lungs, so that nothing might in- 
trude to interrupt the comfortable digestion of the enormous mass he had 
devoured. 

“ 1 am afraid,” exclaimed the count, “ that there is only one thing to 
which you can attend to-night, so that it will be in vain to introduce any 
other.” 

“ Not at all, not at all, most excellent finder of suppers,” cried the other ; 
“ there was only one thing to which I could attend ; but thanks to your 
guarantee and my diligence, that matter has been happily discussed ; and 
now I am entirely at your service for any thing it may be wise in you to 
suggest, or me to hear.” 

“ Nay, but now,” said the count, “you are getting on as much too fast, 
as awhile ago you were too slow. Before I shall care to suggest whatever 
may be afloat in my mind, it will be as well for me to learn what sort of a 
man is he to whom these suggestions are to be made.” 

“ And it will be as well for me to learn the suggestions— since that is to 
be the word — of my patron, from which I may judge how much it is ne- 
cessary for me to confess. 1 have spent some few years of my life in 
Catholic Italy, and learned the lesson there of apportioning my quantum 
of confession to the taste of my father confessor.” 

“ Then at least I may gather thus much from 3 r ou, that 1 am addressing 
a good catholic.” 

“By no means,” replied the other, hastily; “it has ever been my 
maxim to do in Rome as the Romans do. In Italy, therefore, I was a 
Catholic : but now that I am in Geneva, my principles are decidedly 
Calvinistic : England had the honour of my birth, and therefore, till I 
quitted it to become a continental rambler, I was as proper a Lutheran as 
the bench of bishops could wish.” 

“ Then we may set you down as a convenience)', I suppose ; and though, 
perhaps, I have the credit of first inventing the word, as much cannot be 
accorded to you, I am afraid — of having invented the sect. The practisers 
of it have been heard of before.” 

“ With all my heart ; and I rejoice to find myself in such goodly com- 
pany : but mean while we are forgetting business, unless indeed your ob- 
ject is to discipline me for a new crusade.” 

“ Oh, no,” said the count with a laugh, “ I have no such eremitical 
views ; or if my labour must be called a crusade, it is for the sake of a 
daughter of the church, not of mother church herself.” 

“ So I opined,” replied the other ; “ never in my life did I meet with a 
gay cavalier crying in the wilderness for assistance, that there was not a 
woman at the bottom of the business. Even in Italy, when the outward 
talk was of stilettos and midnight walks, a little probing soon served to 
show me the cause of the mischief was woman — still woman.” 

“Then you do know something of the use of such instruments,” ex- 
claimed the count, searchingly. 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


147 


I ” Theoretically, merely theoretically,” replied the stranger, carelessly; 
” a man who professes himself, as I do, a citizen of the world, must know 
something of every thing,” 

What further might have passed between these two was for the moment 

I interrupted by a knocking at the gate ; and the stranger started up with a 
brow where suspicion sat deep-seated and watchful. If his intention 
was escape, he was too late, for the door was heard to open, and voices 
were audible in the passage. On this his resolution appeared to be taken : 
he again seated himself, and merely drawing his cloak, which appeared to 
be his constant companion, closely around him, seemed to be waiting the 
result. 

The first words which were distinctly audible in the kitchen were utter- 
ed by Kobolt. ** Indeed, gentlemen,” said he, “ there are none here but 
inmates of the house.” 

A glimmer of anxiety seemed to steal its way through De Mara’s coun- 
tenance, and his hand was silently insinuated beneath his vest, as if in 
preparation for what should follow ; but the next remark that was heard 
from without cleared his countenance ; and the emotion under which he 
had laboured was evidently relieved, either by the words that were utter- 
ed, or by the voice that uttered them. His quick glance again turned to 
the stranger, to observe whether he had traced the transient feeling that 
had moved him ; but so rapidly did the man’s dark and penetrating eye 
dart in all directions, that he was obliged to resign the inquiry without in- 
forming himself of any conclusive result. 

The words that had constituted the reply to Kobolt were, “ If, then, 
there are none but inmates, there can be no objection to our entry. Make 
way, sir, in the name of the authorities of Geneva.” 

The bustle seemed to cease somewhat on this demand ; and in another 
moment Kobolt made his appearance in the kitchen, close followed by four 
persons, who, by their dress and manner, appeared to belong to the police 
of Geneva. 

“ Are these a part of your inmates ?” said one of them to the landlord, 

I pointing to De Mara and his new acquaintance. 

“They are so for the present,” replied Kobolt; “you must, of course, 
be aware that every inn is liable to have inmates for short, as well as long, 
periods.” 

« No doubt, no doubt,” returned the spokesman of the party of police ; 
and you must be aware that it sometimes happens that rogues as well 
as honest men seek the shelter of such roofs. The syndics of Geneva have 
of late been much alarmed by acts committed in the city and in the en- 
virons of the city ; and we are under instructions to make a most peremp- 
tory investigation as to all strangers and wanderers.” 

« I trust,” said the count, whose chief employment seemed to be to watch 
the emotions of his new acquaintance, “ I trust, however, that honest men are 
not to be made to suffer for those who only know the laws to break them ?” 

“Certainly not,” said the officer; “ the most any man who is guilty of 
no crime will suffer, is a little inconvenience, and that he may well put up 
with, when he remembers, that it is in pait to protect him against the attacks 

of midnight robbers that that inconvenience is inflicted.” 

“ Very true,” said De Mara ; « but 1 presume you perceive by this time 
that there are none here to excite your suspicion, and therefore your inquiry 


“Ay, ay,” replied the stranger ; “ so, good-night, gentlemen.” 

« You get on a little too fast,” replied the officer, with a grave smile ; I 
presume by your accent, that you are not a born Genevese?” 

“ I certainly am not,” answered the count, to whom this question was 
addressed. 


148 


TRANSFUSION : OR, THE 


“ Then I must trouble you for the production of your passport” 

“ I have it not with me, but it will perhaps be sufficient to state that I am 
count De Mara, a French peer at present resident in Geneva.” 

“ Count De Mara !” exclaimed the man with the cloak. 

The officer turned sharply round to him, and asked, “Pray, what may 
that exclamation mean ?” 

“ It was no exclamation,” replied he, with all his self-possession returned ; 

“ it was merely vouching for my friend’s accuracy by repeating his name.” 

There still seemed to be a lingering doubt in the officer’s mind as to De 
Mara’s correct announcement of himself, when one of his followers stepped 
forward, and, touching his hat, observed, “ 1 can vouch that this gentleman 
is count De Mara, for I heard him give his evidence before the syndics on 
the case of Madame Deboos’ murder.” 

De Mara, whose attention had throughout been given to the stranger, 
hardly knew what to conclude from the outward signs that escaped, so 
much did they vary, and for so short a period did any one of them remain 
marked on his countenance to give the nobleman time to analyse it. Once 
or twice he thought he could perceive his eye quail, and his countenance 
grow somewhat pale ; but before he could assure such a change to himself, 1 
the former composure and reckless hardihood of the fellow seemed again to 
prevail, and his manner to have the same independence of consequences 
that was ever so striking in his deportment. At the close of the observation 
of the subaltern of police, however, there was beyond doubt an uneasy 
movement in his aspect ; but again it was subdued, and the same iron 
firmness once more met the count’s scrutinizing glance. 

In the mean while the officer who had hitherto conducted the inquiry was 
engaged in apologizing to the nobleman for the questions his duty had I 
forced him to put to him ; and though perhaps there was a lurking some- 
thing that expressed h’s surprise at finding a peer of France at such a place, i 
and at such an hour, his words were as soothing and exculpatory as De ! 
Mara could require. 

As soon as they had been accepted in that sense by the count, the con- 
ductor of the police turned his attention more particularly to the stranger. 

“ And now, sir, will you be so good as to inform me whether you are a 
Genevese ?” 

“ I should have thought my accent,” said he with the cloak, “ would have 
told you that. I am.” 

De Mara, who a few minutes before had heard him declare himself an 
Englishman, could hardly suppress an exclamation at the coolness with 
which he announced himself of Geneva. “ However,” thought he, “ my 
friend sticks to his motto — ‘ At Rome do as the Romans do.’ ” 

“ That is lucky, then,” continued the officer, “for as I know nearly 
every family of the place, the announcement of your name will at once set 
all suspicion at. rest.” 

“My name,” said the stranger, “Is Mai volt!” and he looked at each 
of the police troop with the rapidity of lightning, as if he would penetrate in 
a moment what effect that name produced. 

« Mai volt Malvolt !” cried the officer-“ the name is not familiar to me. 
Do any of you know it ?” added he, turning round to his fellows. 

There was a general negative from the party. 

“ I suppose,” replied he, who had announced himself as Malvolt, « that 
a man is not to be hanged as an apology for the ignorance of a set of thief- 
catchers ?” 

“ Thief-catchers !” said the officer, indignantly ; “ it would be as well to 
address us, even if we are such, with a civil tongue.” 

“ So it would,” returned the other, « that you might for once hear what 
you never practised yourself. But, by the ghost of Alexander, (who as 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


149 


the greatest conqueror, I take to be the greatest thief that ever lived,) I 
will say this— 1 have seen the thief-catchers of most countries in Europe, 
and never did I see such a set of hang-dog countenances as now stand 
before me.” 

De Mara, at this sally on the part of the stranger, laughed outright, while 
the officer, fuming and fretting at so audacious an attack on his mace and 
dignity, exclaimed, “ Hark-ye, my fine fellow, on your own confession, 
you seem to know more than an honest man ought of gentlemen of my 
calling, and I shall therefore make bold to order you into custody, that their 
honors, the syndics, may see what you are good for in the morning. Men, 
advance, and seize your prisoner.” 

“ Nay, gentlemen,” cried De Mara, interposing, “ allow me to intercede ; 
will my word be sufficient to bail this rough-tongued associate ?” 

“ Ay, pray intercede, only that I may have my laugh out,” said the stran- 
ger, who was almost shaking the room with his rude and ungovernable 
mirth. “There — there,” added he, when he could speak plainly, “now 
you may take off the embargo, and let these prodigious wielders of syndic 
law make the most of me.” 

The troop did n«t seem to take the hint, but stood staring at one another, 
while the count could not suppress a titter, though he was trying to look as 
grave as they. 

“ Then you won't have me, after all ?” exclaimed he with the cloak ; 

1 “ come — come — most worthy beck-and-calls of Count De Mara, do you 
not think you may as well throw off this fierce disguse, and join me in 
I drinking more wisdom to yourselves, and better success to his lordship's 
| next plot ?” and with this he threw off a huge beaker of wine that stood 
[ near him. 

“ I thought as much,” cried De Mara, who hardly knew whether to be 
most amused at the sorry figure his associates cut, or annoyed at the stran- 
ger having seen through the device by which he hoped to place him entirely 
\ at his mercy and control — “ I thought as much as soon as 1 caught a 
glimpse of that infernal simper of Mon Petit, who looked all the while as 
if he was lamenting the loss of his fine clothes, and wondering how the devil 
he got into such a calfskin.” 

“ Phoo, phoo, count,” added the stranger, though his voice could hardly 
be heard in the general chuckle that pervaded it, “ do not give all the 
blame to one gentleman ; there are just four of them ; and I present them 
with a quarter a-piece, unless, indeed, that terrible gentleman with tho 
beard is resolved to have the lion’s share.” 

“Hark-ye, sir, cried Maravelli, who was the one pointed at, and who bv 
no means relished the laugh raised by this remark, “you will do as well 
to leave those observations alone ; for though I resign my character as thief- 
catcher, you may perhaps find that I know how to swinge a rogue wh<< 
forgets his manners.” 

“ Not if the count becomes bail for me, I trust,” replied the stranger, 
with another of his peals of laughter. 

“Well, well, I confess the plot, my good fellow,” said De Mara, “ so 
Jet us say no more about it ; and let the case stand as it did before these won- 
der-working gentry made their appearance ; to whom, however, though 
the matter has failed, I return kind thanks for their exertions. And now, 
landlord, bring another dozen of the black cork, and we will finish the 
night in a style that shall reconcile every body.” 

“ Ah, most noble count! now, indeed, you go the way to win my heart,” 
said the stranger : “ did you think iron fetters could be half so binding as 
those rosy ones which I hear Kobolt clinking in the cupboard ?” 

“ But how came you to dissolve the fetters that were so cunningly pre- 
pared ?” 


5 * 


150 


TRANSFUSION : OR, THE 


“ Why,” said the other, “ I will not deny that the first approach of these 
gentry gave me a qualm 5 though, for all that, I am a good citizen and an 
honest man.” 

“ Oh, of course,” ejaculated Kobolt, as he placed the wine that was 
ordered on the table. 

“ Landlord, know your distance,” returned he of the cloak, “ or I shall 
give my noble friend a hint to examine the items of your bill.” 

“ But,” said Mon Petit^ “ we have not yet heard what led to our detec- 
tion.” * 

“ Why,” said the man, “ the first thing that gave me a suspicion was, 
that your hands w T ere much too clean for the office you professed. Look 
at mine— they are nearer the true tint, although they have undergone some 
unusual washing to-night. Then I could not smell tobacco when you 
entered ; and who ever heard of a thief-taker who was not a pipe-taker as 
well ? Besides, Kobolt, for he has a share in the blunder, opened the door 
much too soon to your llhock, so that from the first I suspected there was 
some cajolery to be watched for.” 

“ And what finally turned these conjectures into certainty ?” asked De 
Mara. 

“ Why, by the time which the gentleman with — the whiskers — (I beg 
his pardon, but, as I don’t know his name, it is the only description I have 
for him)— by the time he began to examine me more particularly, my mind 
was pretty well resolved ; and when he said he knew the name of every 
Genevese, and yet believed my statement when I announced myself with 
such a queer accent as I must plead guilty to on my tongue, I determined, 
should he ask me my name, to put the whole matter to the test.” 

“ But I do not see,” cried Maravelli, “ how telling me that your name 
was Mai — Mai — what the deuce was the uncouth ' sound ? — Avas any test 
at all.” 

“ Ay, there it is,” cried the stranger ; “ you cannot even remember that 
the name I gave you Avas Malvolt. Ask Kabolt here, and he will tell you 
that that Avas the name of the only famous neck-or-nothing that has been 
heard-of in these parts for the last ten years ; so that, had you really been a 
gentleman vermin-catcher, the mention of that name would have roused 
your suspicions in a moment, instead of which it passed as quietly with you 
as if I had given you some name that is to be met with in every street of 
every town of every country of Europe.” 

“ I might have guessed,” said De Mara, “ that so travelled and accom- 
plished a gentleman as yourself would have been too much for these neAV 
traders in untried lands ; — but noAV to business, for daylight will soon be 
pressing upon us, and Ave must separate. I have already given you a 
pretty broad hint as to the way in which your services will be required, 
if you are willing to serve me, give me, as a guarantee, a brief sketch of 
your life, that I may understand in Avhat Avay your abilities will be most 
available ; and I pledge myself, in return, to let you have a retaining fee 
of a hundred louis-d’or, with an additional hundred on your completing my 
directions to my satisfaction.” 

“ With all my heart,” cried the stranger ; “for I can see no reason why 
my life should not be recorded, as well as that of other great characters, 
and perhaps I may be lucky enough to find a biographer in one of these 
gentlemen ; for that seems noAV-a-days of such easy assumption, that he 
who can barely spell is sure to put forth his claims under the cloak of some 
other man’s life.” 

“ Come,” replied the count, “ I must lay a veto on all episodes in digres- 
sion. Time presses, and you must be clever at crowding much into little, 
®r we shall never get to an end at this sitting.” 

“Never fear,” said the other ; “I could put the whole in a parenthesis ; 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


151 


but I begin : — In the first place, you must understand that my name is 
, Urfort. I have already told you that England had the honour of my birth.” 
“ And yet,” remarked one, “ Urfort is not an English name.” 

“ Never mind for that,” cried Urfort : “ it is a very good name, let it 
i belong to what country it may. As to what passed in England or her 
I possessions (for much of my youth was spent in her colonies,) it has no- 
1 thing to do with the distinguishing features of my life, and I therefore say 
/ no more about it ; — but some foolish family-matters induced me, about 
i twenty years ago, to set my foot on the continent of Europe, and never 
j since that day have I quitted it. As to England, it is a queer place to live 

[ in, and I never felt any desire to return : the people are all mad, one way 
or another ; and they ask so many questions about what their neighbours 
are doing, it never would have suited my solitary temperament. For a 
long time I sojourned with my wife in Spain.” 

“What!” cried the count — “such an independent gentleman, as you, 
i marry ! Who would have dreamt it ?” * 

“ I don’t know,” replied Urfort, “but that marriage is the most indepen- 
| dent state after all ; but I shall not stop to argue that point now. How- 
i ever, our sojourn in Spain was suddenly broken up, through my fear that 
P the country was too hot for my lady : so we w’ent to Sicily.” 

“ That, one would think, would be making bad worse instead of better, 
i If the climate of Spain was too hot, how could you expect to be cooler in 
I Sicily.” 

“ I did not say it was the climate of Spain that was too hot— but the 
) country. The fact was, we w’ere living at a village a couple of miles from 
I Seville, when I happened to hear that an old sweetheart of my wife had 
i made his appeal ance in that city. My disposition is by no means jealous ; 

I but, as to trusting a woman within reach of a former flame, under a Span- 
! ish sun — to have done so would have been to entitle myself to a most 
especial place in the general madness I so lately launched against my 
countrymen ; — so, you see, Sicily might be as cool as Caucasus in my phi- 
| losophy.” 

“ And how fared you at Sicily ?” 

“ Humph ! why — good and bad, which 1 have found to be the common 
I mixture all the world over. However, 1 got into a very expensive sort of 
’ connexion in the interior of the island ; and my wife liked it still less 
than I.” 

“1 suppose,” cried Maravelli, “ she found Sicily as much too hot for 
you, as you feared Seville might be for her.” 

“It is not for mere man,” replied Urfort, with a sneer, “to pretend to 
develope all a silly woman’s suspicions. The end of it, however, was, 
that she asked me to go ; and, as I found that I owed more money there 
than I well knew how to pay, I agreed, and we next took up our abode at 
Venice ; but I soon found that that would not do. Would you believe it ? 
—the streets there are all water, and the highways as deep— as deep— as 
the Lake of Geneva. I very speedily saw that that was not the spot for me. 
I loved hunting too well to stay in a place, where, before you had doubled 
three times, you were sure to find yourself face to face with the ocean.” 

“ Are you sure,” asked the count, “ that it did not sometimes happen 
that you were the hare instead of the huntsman ? You speak so feelingly 
of the double, that I cannot help thinking you must have had opportunities 
of knowing the value of it.” 

“ 1 am sure of nothing,” replied the other, testily, “but that Venice did 
not suit me at all. So then we tried Padua, and after that Milan : then 
we went north to Vienna, west to Frankfort, and, skirting round by the 
Spanish side of France, down we came to Nice.” 

“ Why, you seem never to have been happy unless you were in motion.” 


152 


TRANSFUSION .* OR, THE 


It was the prescription of my physician — he trembled for the stagna- 
tion of my blood ; — so, when the weather was fine, and 1 could be out of 
doors, we travelled ; and when it was foul, and I was confined within, I 
turned my wife into a kingdom, and practised on her. The little hurri- 
cane used to call it tyrannizing, and though I told her, over and over again, 
that it was absolutely necessary for the good of my health, I never could 
persuade her to submit with patience and the recollection of this brings 
me to Florence. Never was such a season known, as followed the one 
after we got there ! Rain, rain — pour, pour— it seemed as if we were 
called on to wish good-by to Italy, and that the Mediterranean and the 
Gulf of Venice were about to meet to compare notes, and to bury the in- 
tervening country under its waters, in order that they might carry on their 
communication the more affectionately. The natural consequence of all 
this bad weather was, that I was obliged to resort to my home exercise, 
which my wife took so ill that, one day, I lost her.” 

“ Lost her ! what, in the flood ?” 

“ Deuce take me if I know how — but I lost her : for awhile I was fool 
enough to try to find her ; but I soon learned to think, with the Irishman, 
that 1 had gained a loss, for, when I lost my wife, I lost my children too ; 
— so that, from a man with incumbrances, I became a man xoithtfut incum- 
brances — a gay bachelor. And it was in good time, too ; for my paternal 
fortune had long been on the wane, and by this time was pretty well 
threadbare.” 

“ And what did the bachelor do with himself?” 

“ Oh ! he took to a jolly, roving life, sometimes at one place, and some- 
times at another, as the wind and tide of inclination or circumstances drove 
him. One time I fell in with the clergy at Rome, and had hopes of bem** 
a cardinal ; but they found out that I was not discreet enough for them, so 
they dismissed me for being too honest : another, I met with a troop of sol- 
diers, though, I must say, I never could find out under whose commission 
they acted ; but pay was plenty, and wine was abundant, and I dare say 
I should have ended my days there, only one day, the lieutenant and 1 
being together happened to find a watch set with brilliants and some other 
trifles, and somehow it happened that we could not agree in the division ; 
so I gave him a push, and he fell down, while I walked off with the booty ; 
and I never heard any thing more of the troop, except that the lieutenant 
was found dead on the spot where I pushed him down : I presume he died 
of chagrin. Gentlemen, I presume I need not pursue my travels farther : 
—suffice it to say, here I am, and ready to earn the count’s two hundred 
louis.” 

“ But, at least, let us know what brought you to Geneva,” said De Mara, 

“ an( l what you have been doing while here. It may have an effect upon 
my determination.” 

u The incident that brought me to Geneva,” replied Urfort, “ was a 
curious one. Money ran short, and I happened to hear that an old friend 
of mine, who had taken a fancy to me after I had lost my wife, was resi- 
dent here ; so I determined to pay her a visit, in the hope that she might 
be better off than myself, and be inclined to assist mo»” 

“ And how came it that you failed in this scheme ?” asked De Mara. 

‘‘ She died just as I found her out ; and, as she left no will in my favour, 

I did not care to press my claim on her executors. My money, however 
was all gone, and look which way I would, I could find nothin** to do — ■ 
and— and there’s an end on’t. Count De Mara knows the rest as well as I 
do myself.” 

The grey of the morning had been for some time creeping in at the win- 
dows of the kitchen where the party was assembled ; and De Mara was 
not sorry to find that Urfort had arrived at the close of his narrative, as he 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


153 


had no desire that those who were neighbours to the inn, where he had 
been sojourning for the night, should perceive his egress thence. He, 
therefore, hastily gave his new ally a supply of money to furnish his pre- 
sent wants, and having fully instructed him where to meet him in order 
that matters might be further adjusted, the count, in company with the 
mock officers of police, evacuated the place, and made the best of their 
way to their respective lodgings, with many a suppressed laugh and chuck- 
ling whisper, as they commented on the various adventures of that fruitful 
night. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

Bell. Madam, I dare swear he loves you. 

Areth. Oh, you’re a cunning one, and taught to lie 
For your lord’s credit ; but thou know’st a lie 
That bears this sound is welcomer to me 
Than any truth that says he loves me not. 

Beaumont and Fletcher’s Philaster. 

It was late before the count shook off the heavy slumber to which he had 
yielded himself on his arrival at his lodgings ; and on looking at his watch, 
and perceiving how far the day was advanced, his first act was to ring the 
chamber bell, and summon his valet to his bed-side. But though the hour 
for the arrival of Urfort was passed, the servant had not seen any one at the 
; hotel who answered the description. 

“ Then assist me to dress, Jacotot,” said the count, “ for I have business 
i on hand that will not brook delay. But are you quite sure that no such 
| person has been asking for me — a dark, swarthy, thick-set man, with huge 
i whiskers and mustachios — about fifty or so ?” 

“ Gluite sure, my lord ; indeed there has been no one here, except a man, 
| who by his appearance I took to be a dancing-master, he was dressed so 
I fine, and with such an amazing profusion of curly locks.” 

“About what age was this son of Terpsichore ? though it cannot be he 
[ that I expect, for heaven knows he has as little of the dancing muse as any 
of the heaviest sons of earth I ever saw.” 

il Oh, at the outside he could not be much more than forty ; — I should 
l hardly think so much, my lord ; for he skipped about like a heifer, and 
I when I told him you were asleep, and must not be disturbed, he bowled six 
bows in rotation with the rapidity of a weaver’s shuttle, and so made his 
I exit.” 

“ Some fellow, no doubt, who would have made an attack on my pocket 
! in the shape of a subscription for a new set of cotillions, or a volume of 
i love-sick ballads to his muse. I am well rid of him.” 

“I am not quite sure, my lord,” replied the servant, “that you are alto- 
I gether rid of him, for his last bow was accompanied with an intimation 
!! that he should do himself the honour of calling again to pay his devoirs to 
i the most noble count De Mara.” 

“ Then I trust to you to stand sentinel, and prevent his entry. Tell him 
that I am from home — or that I never subscribe— or that I am a sworn 
devotee, and an enemy to all dancing. Tell him what you please, but see 
that he does not get admission ; and if such a one as I have described should 
call, he is to be shown up to me immediately.” 

“I shall observe, my lord.” 

“ And now, you may go ; but be in waiting when I ring for my coffee.” 

Jacotot bowed himself out of the apartment, though not quite so rapidly 


154 


TRANSFUSION : OR, THE 


or so ceremoniously as the dancing-master whom he had celebrated ; and - 
the count found himself again alone. 

The continued absence of CJrfort was troublesome to him ; and he could 
not help, as he waited (watching the moments,) blaming himself for havingj v 
leagued his cause with an individual of so doubtful a purppse. In his pre- 
sent predicament he was stationed like one on whom the N ecromancer’s 
wily art has but half taken effect— betwixt action and the will to act. He| 
could proceed by himself ; and ever and anon he shook off the expectation 
of his laggard ally, in the resolution of trusting only to his own powers of 
operation ; and then as often he returned to the wish of working in company, 
and again counted the minutes of absence that prevented his applying the 
energies of his mind to a consideration of the difficulties by which he was 
beset. Any sound that broke in upon the doubtful monotony of the scene i 
roused him from his profitless task , and he blushed to himself at being found i 
in so silly and wavering a humour. Why could he not lake his mind out | 
of this single subject? He would sing, and try what the Troubadours p 
would do for him — but half a stanza brought him to his own serenade, and 
the rapid and eventful circumstances of the preceding night brought him ji 
back to his former train of thinking. Were there not better hopes in a book? !< 
And he took up one in the firm determination that it should employ his ; 
thoughts, and teach him patience, but neither would this do : wit, mirth, ft 
dulness, or poetic fire passed him ’by with equal ineffectiveness ; and the ' 
whole tending of his ideas would revert in spite of himself to Madeline, to } 
Wahrend, and to Urfort ; 

“ So that the words ho read he takes for mocks.” 

Any thing would be better than such solitary annoyance ; and he almost k 
repented him that he had ordered Jacotot to refuse the petitioning dancing- L 
master admission : his impertinence might be amusing, and his strain of 1 
bows and congis might serve to distract his attention until the sluggish i 
instrument of his next project should arrive. 

It almost seemed as if the unadmitted visiter of the morning jumped with ) 
his turn of resolution, for a loud wrangle was heard on the stairs just as j 
this thought flitted across his mind, and Jacotot’s voice was heard loudly 1 
exclaiming against some one who seemed to be insinuating his way towards ! 
the count’s apartment. 

De Mara, glad of any interruption that should break the tedious minutes, | 
opened the door, and found his valet in the midst of a wordy war with a 
person so gaily tricked out and bedizened with the most extravagant favours 
of art, that he had not much difficulty in guessing that the intruder was the 
individual whom he had directed Jacotot to exclude. 

“ Let the gentleman come in,” he cried ; “ I find myself more at leisure 
than I expected, and shall be happy to hear his errand.’ 

The valet, in obedience to the voice of his master, made way for the man 
of many colours, who danced himself into the room with an innumerable 
number of attitudes, “ making a leg,” as the old Dramatists so humorously 
call it, after every two or three steps. Jacotot gave his master a piteous 
look, as much as to say, “ I assure you, l could not help it and then with- 
drew with a bow somewhat more studied than that which he generally exe- 
cuted, as if desirous of giving the pendulous stranger a lesson of how the 
thing was done when it came into dignified hands. 

As soon as the gentleman whose sole profession appeared to be agility 
had fairly watched the disconsolate lacquey out of the apartment, he threw 
himself on the sofa and burst into an immoderate fit of laughter. That 
laugh declared his disguise at once, for it was too remarkable ever to have 
been heard without being immediately recognised on a second effusion. 


ORPHANS OP ON WALDEN. 


155 


‘Heavens!” cried the count, “is it you, Urfort? Then after all you 
were more punctual to your appointment than myself: but what is the 
meaning of all this mummery ?” 

“Merely that I was willing,” replied Urfort, “to give my excellent pa- 
tron an opportunity of judging of my abilities. Even his penetrating eye 
did not detect the jolly carouser of past midnight in the fantastic represen- 
tation of a comme il faut petit-maitre.” 

“ I must confess you baffled my recognition : why, you look ten years 
younger than last night.” 

“ So much the better to qualify me to become Cupid’s messenger.” 

“But how have you managed it? What has become of your grisly 
locks — your hollow eye — and your overhanging beard and mustachios ?” 
j “ Oh, their absence,” said the man with a laugh, “ is easily accounted 
for. A skilful barber made a clearance of locks, beard, and mustachios, 
almost in a breath, while his stock supplied me with these flowing curls, 
and it was the bountiful supper of your own providing last night that has 
filled the hollow of my eye and the wrinkles of my cheek : it was care 
that had made the holes, then why should not comfort fill them up again?” 

“Well, at all events I am glad to see so advantageous a change : but I 
am afraid that this dress is not exactly suited for the use for which I want 
you.” 

“Then,” said Urfort, “it shall be changed with the rapidity of leger- 
demain. All that I was anxious for was to make such an appearance that 
not even the most scrutinizing eye should recognise me; and the experi- 
ment already made upon your lordship has fully satisfied me of the 
result.” 

“What are these persons in Geneva whose recognition you fear?” 
asked De Mara, with an inquiring look. 

j “Why, a man never knows when he shall meet a creditor. They grow 
up in every soil, and stick live ivy when they once get a hold.” 

“ That’s true,” said the count, “ and it would mar your activity dread- 
fully if you once get into such clutches. But now to business, for the day 
f creeps apace, and we ought to be at work.” 

De Mara then explained his situation with Madeline to its full extent, 
and described how this new intruder Wahrend had intervened and checked 
his prospects, when he was in hopes that the amende honorable on his part 
would have induced his mistress to pardon the error into which his desire 
of trying her affection had led him. The first object, therefore, in further- 
ance of which he wished to- call in the assistance of Urfort, was to ascer- 
tain the exact position in which the Swiss stood, relatively to Madeline, 
that De Mara might understand how far he was to be regarded as a dan- 
gerous rival, and whether it was necessary for him to proceed to peremp- 
tory measures to remove him from the scene of action. Urfort, while this 
account was being related, showed that he could be a good listener, as he 
had before evinced that he was able to be a bold talker ; and the count, as 
he proceeded with his story, felt assurance in the efficiency of this new 
agent, when he observed how his manners settled into attention, and his 
eye, which generally roved with the freedom of his tongue, became staid 
and animate only as the features of the tale called it into action. “ Now,” 
cried the nobleman, as he finished his relation of such circumstances as he 
thought necessary for a right understanding of the case, “now you are 
perhaps as well able to judge as I what is the first, step to be taken : but 
let this be remembered — that whatever is agreed, it is absolutely requisite 
that it should be practically brought to bear immediately.” 

“ I feel it with even more force than your lordship,” replied Urfort, with a 
smile ; “ for the second hundred louis that waits the successful completion, 
will certainly keep that necessity present to my recollection.” 


156 


TRANSFUSION : OR, THE 


“ Have you any proposition to make ? Or shall I give you half an houi 
for consideration ?” 1 

“ I hate consideration,’’ cried the other ; “ it savours too much of doubt ; 
the greatest hits the world has ever witnessed have always been coups-de- j 
main, and I have no doubt that we are about to add one to the number. 
The only preliminary step must be for me to see the girl, tor though I 
doubt not your lordship’s powers of discrimination, I have got into the 
habit of always drawing my own conclusions as to character ; and I should ; 
be labouring in a sort of blank field, if I had not the living picture before | 
my mind.” j 

“That is well bethought. But how shall I obtain an interview for you ?” 

“ That is easily managed. Install me in Mr. Jacotot’s post of honour ; i| 
let me figure in your lordship’s livery, and with a letter in my pocket, the i 
way is clear enough.” 

“ But will not that be giving you too low a standing to find grace in her ii 
eyes ? The girl has some notions of haughtiness and pride.” 

“ Oh, never fear. If it is as I suspect, the very lowness of my station !. 
will make her more ready to use me as I purpose, if the conjectures I have 
come to on the strength of your story are well founded.” 

“ And to what do those conjectures amount ?” 

“ Under permission, I will describe them at another opportunity; time i 
presses, and it would therefore be mischievous to waste it by dwelling on fi 
them if they are wrong ; and if they turn out to be right, they will make S 
a better show when I can strengthen them with such facts as shall draw to 
the same point.” 

“ Right, right,” returned the count ; “ I will therefore only detain you |l 
white I write a few lines, and you may make use of that opportuity in !;! 
turning over Jacotot’s wardrobe, which I dare say w ill be sufficient to equip |; 
you for your adventure.” 

Half an hour served to accomplish both these objects; and, with a few 1 
more parting words of advice from De Mara, Urfort took his way to Ma- j 
deline’s abode. 

With his new' dress he had put on another new manner ; and, as the I 
count watched him through the street, he w'as again obliged to confess to ! 
himself that he could not, in his new lacquey, trace any of the style of that 
reckless would-be-suicide who had obtained his acquaintance in so extra- I 
ordinary a mode. The smart and w r ell-dressed valet trod the pavement i 
with a sober and measured step, as if he had been as demure as Jacotot 
himself ; but, at the same time, there was an insinuating address in his ; 
gait, that left far behind the still and repelling attitude of him to whom De 
Mara at first compared him, and which seemed w r ell calculated to attract 
the attention of those who were willing to take the first impression w’hich 
a man’s outward appearance might yield, without waiting for some mental 
companion to confirm it. 

Urfort, who was willing to form his first acquaintanceship with Madeline 
after a fashion of his own, took care, on arriving at her abode, to find his 
way to her apartment without suffering the servant of the house to announce ! 
his errand. 

It was by this step, the unceremoniousness of which he hoped would be 
palliated by the consideration of w'hose representative he was, that he ex- 
pected to be able to ascertain, with something like satisfactory precision, 
the state of Madeline’s respective feelings towards Wahrend and the count. 
On entering the apartment, however, he found Madeline alone; and 
though this was one of the opportunities he wanted, he would have been 
better pleased to have found her in company with the Swiss, that he might 
have watched their conduct towards each other with a jealous eye : it w'as, ‘ 
however, necessary to explain what had brought him there, and he volun- 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


157 


teered the count’s billet for that purpose. Madeline, who had not, on the 
first moment of his entrance, recognised the livery in which he was attired, 
had started up with something like anger in her countenance, to demand 
the reason of the intrusion, when the superscription of the proffered note 
caught her eye. The well-known characters told her from whom it came, 
and a gentle blush bespoke the emotion that accompanied the discovery ; 
her delicate and finely-tapered fingers slightly trembled as she broke the 
seal, and there was a suppressed nervousness about her general manner 
as she prepared to read the contents. W as it that she remembered the 
contents of De Mara’s last letter, and dreaded what this might now' con- 
tain ? — or w'as it that she was apprehensive of the effect of her coquetry 
with Wahrend at the Plain Palais might have produced on the count? — 
and her heart trembled at the opportunity offered for solving the question. 

Urfort watched all that passed with a cunning eye ; and though he took 
care to tutor its flashes to the more respectful glance of a menial, he did not 
the less note all those outward signs the maiden’s consciousness betrayed 
of what was passing within. 

The note, however, was scarcely sufficient to determine her either one 
way or the other ; it was little more than a respectful petition from the 
count, to be allow'ed to pay his devoirs to her that morning, if her leisure 
W’ould permit. In the w’ords there was nothing exceptionable ; and though 
she conned them again and again, all that she could make out from them 
was, that the style had not that ardent flow which had characterized the 
nobleman’s epistles before a shadow had been thrown over their correspon- 
dence by the untowardness of late occurrences ; — and yet, why was she to 
find fault with this ? It was she that had repressed his advances towards 
a renewal of «. perfect understanding between them ; and therefore that 
the count should have adopted her cue was rather indicative of his obedi- 
ence to her wishes, than any thing offensively intended on his part. True ! 
most true!— but still she felt a shivering at her heart, as she repeated to 
herself the studied and measured politeness of his phrases. 

At length she remembered that De Mara’s servant was waiting for her 
answ'er ; and, as she looked up to bid him stay while she wrote one, it was 
again brought to her recollection that she had never seen his face before in 
the suite of that nobleman. 

“ You will be so good as to wait,” said she, “ while I write to his lord- 
ship ; but I do not remember ever having seen you before among his de- 
pendants.” 

« No, Ma’m’selle,” replied Urfort, ingeniously throwing into his manner 
all the rusticity of one whom even fine clothes, a fine place, and a fine city, 
could not convert from his country habits— “ no, Ma’m’selle, I only left 
father last week.” 

“ Your father must be an old man, for you cannot yourself be less than 
forty.” . 

“ There it is : father’s got old, and the farm does not go on as it did ; so 
he dressed me out to come and find our landlord, that I might ask for a 
long day for the rent.” 

“ And who is your landlord ?” 

“ Why Count De Mara, to be sure ! Some of his estates lie near Lyons, 
and as we heard he was staying at Geneva, 1 came to try and find him , 
and so he said he w'ould do what he could for poor father, and gave me a 
place in his service. I do hope I shall be able 1o keep it; for it is a fine 
thing to get such clothes as these, and pay nothing for them, Ma’m’selle.” 

“ Well, well — do your best, and I dare say you will not lose your situa- 
tion : here is something to welcome you to Geneva, and if my good word 
can be of use — ” 

“ What ?— money, and a good word too!” cried the valet. “Heaven 
51-6 


158 


transfusion: or, the 


bless your ladyship ! I am sure you can do what you like with my master, 
for M. Jacotot told me so himself.’* 

“Madeline’s eyes glistened at the words, though her pride would not let 
her confess to herself that the speech of the servant could warm her to 
pleasure. Not caring, however, to trust herself with any further conversa- 
tion, she turned her attention to the task before her, and commenced her 
reply to De Mara. 

But scarcely had she written the first words, ere she was interrupted by 
the entrance of Wahrend : he made his appearance at an unlucky moment ; 
for the heart of the maiden had, in spite of her pride, softened towards the 
count, and was therefore in ill accord to grant a smiiing welcome to him 
whom her perturbed and uneasy spirit had set up as a rival to the nobleman. 

“ Good morrow to the deserter from Unwalden !” cried the Swiss, gaily. 
“ May we again talk of what was, and again shall be ! — of the day that 
has been, and the day that is to come, when the fatiguing and hurried city 
life shall be changed for the tranquil enjoyment of nature !” 

“And why is the city life to be thrown aside,” replied Madeline, “for 
the dull monotony of nature P’ 

Wahrend looked somewhat astonished at this question. At length — 
“Nay,” said he, “ it is rather for me to ask that query ; for it was you that 
only yesterday so bitterly inveighed against the troubling annoyances of Ge* 
neva, and so sweetly praised the calm pleasures of Unwalden.” 

“ And to-day I inveigh against the dull sameness of Unwalden, -and am 
in love with the gay scenes of Geneva. Is there any marvel in that ? The 
prosing logician takes on himself to argue on both sides of the case — and 
is a woman to have less privilege than so heavy a piece of mechanism ? 
But I have not even time to contend with myself now, much less to con- 
tradict you. You see the servant waits for my answer, and therefore your 
next visit must serve to settle this question.” 

Wahrend, who had been hitherto standing in expectation of a seat being 
offered, perceived that this was meant as a hint for his departure ; anc^ 
though he did not feel much pleased at being so unceremoniously dismissed, 
his simple nature led him to confess to himself that it was very possible 
the maiden had a letter of importance to write, and that, at all events, he 
had no right to dispute her commands. 

“ But when may I come again?” asked he, eager at least to take this 
opportunity of fixing her to a time of her own. 

“ It is not worth an appointment,” returned Madeline — “ I am generally 
at home, and you must therefore be content to take your chance. To-mor- 
row, or the next day — ” 

“ To-morrow, if you please,” interrupted Wahrend; and he made a 
hasty retreat, as if desirous of affording her no opportunity to retract from 
this overture. 

Madeline’s attention now reverted to Urfort : she looked at him, and it 
seemed to her as if he had hardly heard a word of what had passed, so 
simple was his guise, and so intent the manner in which he gazed on the 
bijouterie with which Madeline’s taste had ornamented the apartment. 
The glance she gave him having led her to this conclusion, she did not care 
to call off' his attention by addressing him ; and she therefore again pre- 
pared to write a reply to the count’s request. But her mind was in a strange 
agitation of doubt : still eager to pursue her stratagem of revenge, and °o 
retaliate on De Mara’s misdoing by setting Wahrend in apparent opposi- 
tion to him, she felt induced to write to him as she had said to the Swiss — 
“ It is not worth an appointment, and therefore you must be content to 
take your chance — and then again, from this intention she was turned 
by the simple phrase of this new valet, of the count — “ I am sure you can 
do what you like with my master*, for M. Jacotot told me so himself.” 


ORPHANS OP UK WALDEN. 


159 


Homely and unassuming as it was, coming from the lips of this apparent 
clown, it had struck a tender chord in her heart, and the string was still 
vibrating in unison with the touch. 

“ I am sure you can do what you like with my master !” Almost uncon- 
sciously she repeated the phrase again and again to herself, as she held her 
pen motionless in her hand, from want of resolution which way to decide. 
Do what she liked ! Oh that she could but assure herself of that ! — Oh 
that this one doubt might be resolved into certainty !— Yes, that once done, 
her impatient temper would brook aught else of ambiguity, for the sake of 
having full assurance poured upon her soul that she was paramount in the 
heart of De Mara. 

And was there no way in which she could obtain the precious satisfac- 
tion for which her mind yearned ? — This last thought was a busy one, and 
it roused the whole stock of imagination to meet the query. Still the pen 
trembled from its office, and still the question was rife in her brain. 

The fine and indistinct thread of her ideas was shaken, but not broken, 
by the voice of Urfort — 

“•Shall I wait,” cried he, with a bow, “ Ma’m’selle, while you write ? — 
or will you send a verbal answer ?” 

“Presently, presently,” murmured Madeline, as if half-abstracted, and 
unconscious of the question. 

“I beg pardon,” returned the other: “I would not have spoken, only I 
know something of master’s temper, though I have been but three days 
with him ; and I am sure he is counting every moment till I return with an 
answer.” 

Still this thought was with the maiden — “ Were there no means by which 
she could obtain assurance of De Mara’s heart-feeling towards her ?” — 
But it was misty as a dream — itself a sort of dream of the mind fatigued, 
though the body slept not ; and as when Morpheus rules the brain, it ad- 
mits strange and inconsequential additions to the picture first painted on 
its tablets, so here, by some unbid admixture, the thought of Urfort was 
joined to that of De Mara, and they were simultaneously presented to her 
mind, as she again asked herself the question — “Were there no means by 
which she could obtain assurance of De Mara’s heart-feeling towards her ?” 

A sort of answer, involuntary on her part, and of a-piece with a dream- 
taught fancy, presented itself to her mind in the words that had fallen from 
Urfort — “ I know something of master’s temper, though 1 have been but 
three da) T s with him.” The expression contained the rudiments of obser- 
vation, perception, and calculation ; and it forced upon her imagination the 
idea, that one who possessed these qualities might be able to afford the key 
that she required to unlock the mystery of De Mara’s secret feelings. 

Madeline s hurried and impetuous vivacity of temperament has been but 
ill described, if the reader is not prepared to admit the possibility of a 
thought like this, which, in more regulated dispositions, would have been 
transient and unacted on, taking fast hold of her mind, and so deeply 
striking root there, as to give a character and tone to her determination. 
The ardour and rapidity with which she arrived at a conclusion, left her no 
time to debate upon the after-consequences that such a conclusion was 
likely to entail upon her. She had no spice of Macbeth’s nervous humour 
in her constitution, as attributed to him by his lady — 

Letting I dare not wait upon I would, 

Like the poor cat i’ th’ adage : 

but was ever pressed forward, by the fiery urging of her passions, to make 
thought and execution go hand in hand. 

No sooner therefore had she the feeling that it was possible to employ 


160 


transfusion: or, the 


Urfort, so that he might assist her in plumbing the depths of De Mara’s 
real feelings, than she overlooked all the invidiousness of employing a ser- 
vant against his master, or of putting herself within the power of a menial’s 
confession. She had one want, and one way of satisfying that want; and 
she could but ill digest the task of weighing whether to embrace the oppor- 
tunity was not inflicting more mischief on herself than she could derive 
good from its employment. 

Whatever awkwardness she might feel in addressing herself to Urfort 
on the subject was sedulously removed by him as it presented itself in the 
course of their conversation, though at the same time he took care never to 
lose sight of that rustic simplicity of manner, which had perhaps been the 
means of more readily inducing her to employ him as her agent on this 
errand of love and jealousy, as it was a trait of character which she was 
easily able to understand, as well as one well calculated to prevent her 
imbibing any suspicions of the real nature of his errand. Whenever dif- 
ficulties, therefore, made their appearance, and she seemed to hesitate on 
the brink, he was always on the watch to drop some little phrase, which, 
without compromising the rusticity he had assumed, was sufficient to act 
as a stepping-stone to her determination, by helping her over those embar- 
rassments, which a consciousness of the unfairness of the task she was 
requiring at his hands repeatedly placed in her way ; and at length they 
were altogether got rid of, by his judiciously hinting that his willingness 
to undertake the office arose from his anxiety to forward an affair on which, 
as he had been assured by M. Jacotot, his master’s happiness so material- 
ly depended. This was a safe point of view for both parties to assume, 
and it was set, upon either hand, as the standard of their intentions. 

If the bond of alliance that had been thus entered upon by Madeline had 
been drawn up with that diplomatic skill which seems innate in all those 
born to government offices and foreign missions, its heads would have 
been found to be three: — 1st. That Urfort was to inform Madeline, by 
every means in his power, of the real state of De Mara’s feelings towards 
her. 2nd. That Madeline was to promote Urfort’s interest by means of 
her good word to the count ; and 3rd. That both parties were, from time 
to time, to suggest such measures as appeared best calculated to bring De 
Mara to that state of feeling, without which Madeline felt that her whole 
existence would be a blank. 

The full and entire discussion of these three points, however, were sud- 
denly checked by the entrance of Albert, who, during the whole morning, 
had been absent, but whose movements were so irregular, that his sister 
never knew when to expect him ; but, though the strange impulse under 
which he seemed to be acting led her not to be surprised at any of his 
erratic movements, yet, on this occasion, his entry caught her unawares ; 
and in the sudden stop that it put upon her conversation with Urfort, she 
felt the first suggestion of her having formed a suspicious and unjustifiable 
compact. It seemed, too, as if her coadjutor had fallen under the same 
impression ; for, the moment he cast his eyes on the youth, a deep suffu- 
sion overspread his countenance, and he turned his face away from the 
door, as though anxious to avoid any glances of inquiry that Albert might 
throw on him. Madeline, whose conscience told her that she had been 
interrupted in the performance of that which was indefensible, marked the 
action, and attributed it to his sharing the same feeling which was instinct 
in her own bosom. 

“ Good morrow, dear Madeline !” cried the brother—* 4 but 1 interrupt 
you ?” 

“No, no,” replied the maiden, hastily: “I was but detaining the count’s 
servant, while I wrote a word in reply to a note that has just been brought 
me.” 


ORPHANS OF UN WALDEN. 


161 


•* Then tell me,” said Albert, “ what is the matter with Wahrend ? I 
met him a few minutes ago, as 1 was bending towards the lake for my 
solitary ramble, and he seemed quite to have lost that gaiety which so 
possessed his whole manner last night, as we sat and talked of sweet Un- 
walden.” 

“ Nay, I know not what has overcome him,” returned the sister ; “ do 
you take me for the mistress of his secrets ?” 

“ No, no,” cried the youth, with a smile ; “ we all have trouble enough 
in taking care of our own.” 

Madeline turned pale at these words, and dared not look her brother in 
the face to inquire from the expression of that, with what feeling it was 
that, he had used words which touched so nearly on her present sensations. 

“ But,” continued he, with a quick fire lighting his eye, “when 1 saw 
bow downcast he looked, and how he had lost the active and aspiring 
spirit that animated his every word last night, I could not help pitying 
him ; for we have known Wahrend long, and as long as we have known 
him, so long have we known the goodness of his heart ; and w hat shame 
would it be to take advantage of his simple nature to inflict a pang upon 
his honest purpose !” 

Madeline again would have examined her brother’s face, but she dared 
not, lest she should challenge his gaze on the perturbed questions that 
were moving through the regions of her countenance. All she could do 
was to ask, “ and did he give no reason for the change ?” 

“ He did not, my sister ; and yet I guessed one. And as the thought of 
how it might be came across my mind, I forgot the dear delightful soli- 
tudes to which 1 had devoted my day, and thought I would come and speak 
to you about, it.” 

“ Albert, Albert,” cried the girl, who could no longer mistake what was 
meant, and who felt all her customary blood kindling to the strife, “ Al- 
bert, what is this ? I have seen dark and undiscoverable things working 
in your mind — but what questions have I asked? Leave me to my 'way, 
brother leave me my way ; for though there is something now about 
you which will not let me dare to use you as was once my habit, I am still 
the same creature —still made up of the same sensations, love, and antipa- 
thies, as when I resisted our uncle’s dictation on the same subject.” 

“You say right,” ejaculated Albert, in a tone as if he would shrink 
from the slightest hint at the secret that held such empire over him— “ You 
say right ! and I fear that nothing excellent, even all-excellent, as what 
hes buried here,” and he struck his hand on his brain, “can be altogether 
separate from error.” 

“Let us then exchange our forgiveness,” said Madeline, extending her 
hand. “ Even one word of anger between us is all too much for the whole 
of our lives, and I would have the consolatory thought that one humae 
bcino' at least has entire affection for me.” 

“Have it, my Madeline— have it!” cried the enthusiastic youth; 
there may be strange things written on the table of my heart, but never 
can they obliterate tire fond memory of my sister. But we will talk more 
of this anon.” 

And then, after an affectionate kiss on the forehead of the maiden, he 
quitted the apartment, again to bury himself in nature’s recesses, and 
ao-ain to brood over the arcanum that was rapt in his seething brain. 

'iJifort had listened to all that had passed with a curious car, but he 
made no observations upon it. Why, indeed, he had been suffered to 
remain a spectator of the scene, he could not well understand, x hat Ma- 
deline should not object to his being there was not perhaps so extraordi- 
nary, for she had already trusted him too deeply with the great master- 
passion of her heart, to heed the new light that the few words which had 


162 


transfusion: or, the 


passed between her and her brother might afford him ; but that Albert 
should have overlooked his presence was somewhat remarkable, nor did 
he know well how to account for it but on the supposition that the youth 
was really hardly conscious of it. This indeed might be, for the wily 
agent had marked his eye distracted, and his manner, which spoke of 
things separate and distinct from the common course of the world’s events ; 
even when speaking of Wahrend, he had seemed loth to do it, and had 
only pressed his words to the service, as if in the discharge of an unwel- 
come but necessary duty. 

Madeline’s mind had been diverted from her former train of thought by 
the subject that Albert had introduced ; and when left again alone with 
Urfort, she felt as if she could not immediately restore herself to her pre- 
vious reflections. 

“ I will write an answer to the count,” said she, “ and we will renew this 
subject to-morrow ; and the mean time will afford you an opportunity for 
obtaining information.” 

The note was soon written, and Urfort was dismissed with it, with a 
handsome present for himself, and a renewed injunction to be watchful and 
vigilant in her cause. He promised all and every thing ; and with a bow exe- 
cuted in the just standard of a rustic transposed, he took his leave for the day. 

In the mean time De Mara had been awaiting the return of his messen- 
ger with much impatience, for he had imbibed a sufficiently good opinion 
of Urfort’s powers of penetration and knowledge of the world to believe 
that he had found in him one who was capable, if he pleased, of affording 
him great and material assistance in the uncertainty in which he was 
placed ; and that he would please, he thought he had sufficiently secured 
by the amount of the rewards he had offered him, and even by the innate 
love of mischief which seemed to possess him, and which would lead him 
to side with a plot which had so notable a purpose for its object. 

At length the mock valet arrived with the letter in his hand, and the as- 
sumed rusticity of manner again changed for the fear-nothing recklessness 
of demeanour that had hitherto marked his intercourse with the nobleman. 

“ Success, success, my noble patron !” cried he, as soon as he had gained 
the count’s presence : I bow with all reverence to Madeline Schvolen’s 
lord and master.” 

De Mara’s eyes brightened at the address of the dependant, as he de- 
manded, “ but is it true ? Is Wahrend nothing, and am I all?” 

“ All and every thing,” cried the other, gaily ; “as for Wahrend he is a 
mere bugbear, only set up to frighten the naughty boy that would fret the 
lemper of his mistress. My own eyes have witnessed his dismissal, or at 
least what would be held to amount to as much by any but a dumpling- 
headed Swiss.” 

“ Excellent !” returned the count ; “ but how was it managed ?” 

" ’Faith, it hardly required management. The girl was eager enough to 
have my aid and abetment, and only required a very gentleTiint from me 
to set the proposition afloat. Mark my words, noble count— she loves you 
as the apple of her eye ; nay, she has all but confessed as much to me in so 
many words.” 

“ But how? but how ?” 

“ Oh, hang explanations. It is so long since I have done any work, 
that to-day’s labour makes me pant like a horse with his first gallop after 
a whole summer’s turning to grass. I must soothe myself with a bottle of 
Kobolt’s best, or 1 shall never be in condition for to-morrow.” 

“With all my heart !” said De Mara, “ but a little conversation over the 
bottle will do no harm.” 

“ Faugh ! what — mix business and pleasure together ! No, that will 
never do; it is like the apothecary’s vile art, who would dispense his 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


168 


noxious poison by mixing it with peppermint and cinnamon water. No, if 
more than the result must be told, let it be thrown off at once, that 1 may 
be left to throw my legs on a chair, and do nothing but give welcome to the 
jolly liquor. Come, what is it you would know 7” 

“ Nay, that is a question for yourself to answer. But an outline will serve.” 

“You have that already ; Wahrend was told that his presence was un pen 
trop, as your country folk would express it ; and 1 am duly accredited spy and 
betrayer of my master’s secrets, on the faith of a present of ten louis-d’or.” 

“ The jade ! to bribe my own servant — but I am glad of it, for, in keep- 
ing no terms with me, she teaches me to keep none with her; and should 
she upbraid me, may perhaps hear of it. But again, and again, are you 
sure of it?” 

“As sure of it as that the ten louis are in my pocket, and that this is 
your answer to your billet.” 

“ Then she is mine !” cried the count, in a tone of exultation, “ and she 
may play off her tool as she pleases. She shall be Helen to my Mount 
Ida Shepherd, and this fine city of Geneva another Sparta, from which I 
will bear her off in triumph. By Heaven, I am so angered at her having 
given me all this trouble and uneasiness, that I could almost find it in my 
heart to hate her, but that love is too predominant.” 

“ All in good time,” said Urfort, with a sneer ; “ all in good time ; hatred 
will come by and by, when love is cooled by the tears of the broken- 
hearted. Oh, it’s mighty pretty to see how the fond fool will quote former 
times, and think that they ought to have lasted for ever.” 

“Tush! Tush!” cried the count; “ these are reflections for Wahrend 
or the girl’s maudlin brother.” 

“ Apropos ! That reminds me that you forgot to say a word about this 
young gentleman ; so that when he made his appearance, I was somewhat 
puzzled to account for him. He seems, however, to have a curious mode 
of dealing with things, for I don’t know whether his talk is like a red-hot 
poet or a mad Rosicrucian ; he deals so in mysteries and rhapsodies.” 

“ Let him not be mentioned,” replied De Mara ; « for his name almost 
throws a nausea on my heart : and after your intelligence of to-day I care 
as little for him as the new-found Swiss, whose appearance I now so well 
understand.” . 

“ But let me tell you, young Albert must be mentioned. To-day is not 
the first time that l have seen him.” 

“ How ?” interrupted the count. 

“Manners, noble patron, manners, if you please ; and do not interruj t 
a gentleman in the middle of his speech. Had you heard me to the end, 
you would have found that I meant to say that to-day is not the first time 
that I have seen the like of him ; and from my observations of his sort of 
character I know that there is danger lurking under that mealy-mouthed 
countenance which seems as gentle as the new-born babe’s.” 

« I cannot fear danger,” cried the count, “ when you tell me that Made- 
line is indisputably mine. Mine ! Oh, there are a thousand worlds in that 
word ! Already I can fancy myself encircling her fine and tapering waist 
with my arm, feeding on the honey that hangs on her pouting lips! 

Already ” „ , , „ . 

“ Gently,” cned Urfort, with an air of astonishment ; do you really love 
the girl? for by your manner I positively declare that even I should be 
led to believe that you did.” 

“ Do I love her ! I love her better than any thing in the universe but— 
myself, my estate, and my next mistress.” 

“ Oh your servant, now we understand one another again, feo let me 
repeat, Albert is the only danger I see to your success. As to Wahrend’s 
own powers of persuasion, they are none ; but let me tell you. the brother 


*64 


TRANSFUSION : OR, THE 


has taken up his cause ; and though the girl has entered into the hot-bed 
of Cupid, it has not made her forget the more tranquil impulses of sisterly 
affection. Mark what I say — Albert is your rock a-head !” 

“ The viper !” exclaimed De Mara ; “ but, good Urfort, we must see 
and baffle this difficulty. Your face has vinegar enough in it, and it was 
with vinegar that Hannibal dissolved the rocks that led to Italy. Prithee, 
squeeze out some of the acetic juice that bides there on this rock a-head, 
and melt it into thin air.” 

“ Your mention of vinegar reminds me of wine,” cried the other, “ and 
wine reminds me of my promised relaxation for the remainder of the day. 
To-morrow we will talk further of this business.” 

“ But merely determine what shall be done with this Albert.” 

“ To-morrow, noble patron, to-morrow. This day I dedicate toBacchus. 
’Fore Heaven ! 1 can imagine the jolly god floats before mine eyes ; and 
see what a frown he gives me, as if in reproach at my having so long de- 
ferred his orgies ! What fine fellows those Italians are who swear by the 
*• Corpo di Bacco !’ but how much finer the sturdy and phlegmatic Germans, 
who practise what the volatile Italians merely protest!” 

“ To remember what happened last night I should rather say that eating 
was your forte.” 

“ Never judge a man by the first interview,” cried Urfort ; “ last night 
was a necessary — this night shall be a luxury. In all honesty I can say 
that I always had a relish for drinking over eating : there is something so 
much more delicate and refined in its mode of operation ; the honey liquor 
glides into the inner recesses of the whole, frame with an insinuation quite 
bewitching.” 

“ Why, Urfort,” exclaimed the count, “ you are quite poetical on the 
subject.” 

“ If any thing.” said the other, “ could turn a man of sense into a mad- 
brain poet, it would be the charms of wine. Rough and rugged as I am 
now, my father was foolish enough to spend a pretty round sum on my 
education, and even now I can’t quite forget the Latinity that was flogged 
into me at school. What is it some one has said of Homer? — 

Laudibus arguitur vini vinosus Homcrus.* 

And when I was but a youngster at the bottle, and thought it became me 
to mix each glass with a sentiment, my favourite quotation used to run, if 
my memory serves me, somewhat thus : — 

Wino whets the wit, improves its native force, 

And gives a pleasant flavour to discourse ; 

By making all one’s spirits debonair, 

Throws off the lcc3 and sediment of care. — P omfret. 

“ Nay,” said the count, if you have quotation as well as argument to 
support you, I shall say no more. Only at least let me know where you 
are to be found in case of necessity.” 

“ Don’t you remember the black corks ? As long as there is any wine 
under that seal, I and my host Kobolt shall be found hand-in-hand. But be 
merciful nothing short of life or death can justify you in disturbing a 
drinking-bout.” 

And then, as if afraid of being further detained, he hurried out of the 
room to make the best of his way to the depository of the black corks and 
his favourite bottle. 


* Homer, by his praise ofliquor, 

Proves he drained his cups the quicker 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


165 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

Penth. Who is the saint you serve ? 

Ithor. Friendship, or nearnees 
Of birth, to any but my sister durst not 
Have moved that question : as a secret, sister, 

I dare not murmur to myself. — Ford’s Broken Heart. 


Faithful to his word, and no doubt deeply buried in the drinking joys 
ftfir which he seemed to have imbibed so keen a relish, Urfort did not make 
his appearance at the count’s hotel till the following morning. The noble- 
I man had had some misgivings as to the condition in which he would pre- 
sent himself after a second night of deep and free carousing : but they all 
vanished on Urfort’s appearance, for he looked fresh and hale ; and those 
who had not been in the secret of his night-long debauch, would have lit tle 
imagined that the period that had elapsed since he quitted De Mara’s hotel 
had been spent in wine-bibbing rather than sleep, and that a hasty hour of 
slumber was all that he had allowed himself. 

• Urfort found De Mara still full of high hopes as to the speedy consumma- 
tion of his scheme with respect to Madeline ; but at the same time there 
was mixed with it more of caution and consideration than the first burst of 
assurance on the previous evening had allowed him to entertain. The 
interest which Albert had shown in favour of Wahrend having sunk deep 
into his mind, and remembering how nearly he himself had suffered for 
running counter to the youth’s influence, he could not conceal from himself 
that the only way in which Wahrend’s presence could have become formi- 
dable to his design, was by its being supported by the patronage and coun- 
tenance of Madeline’s brother. 

It was with such reflections as these pressing through upon his mind, 
that he awaited the arrival of Urfort. 

“You are well come,” cried he, as soon as he perceived that his agent 
had entered the room, and w-as awaiting his further directions— “ you are 
well come. And now to business. What further do you propose ?” 

« Nay, that is for your lordship to say. I was indulged with the black 
corks last night, and therefore cannot be less to day than all obedience in 
return.” 

“I am afraid,” said De Mara, “ that now that you drank so deeply and 
have slept so lightly, that you have not yet been able to awaken your brain 
to any effect. One word, however, will tell you which way I would have 
you turn your attention — Albert ?” 

“With all my heart,” said the other; “I owe the lad a grudge, and I 
care not how soon the opportunity comes for striking a balance.” 

“ Owe him a grudge— and for what?” 

“ Nay, noble patron,” replied Urfort, with some slight hesitation, which, 
however’ he contrived to gloss over by a sinister look, executed in his best 
dare-devil style — “ nay, how can you ask that? Has he not crossed your 
path ? — and is not that crossing mine ? For till your way is made smooth, 
I am a hundred louis out of pocket. But what would you have me do with 


the stripling?” ... 

“ Do what you like with him!” said the count, hotly — “for I hate his 
very name. For any thing 1 care, you may take him to the top of a certain 
jetty that you wot of, and cast him into the lake !” 

“Humph! I rather think the young gentleman might be in no humour 


166 


TRANSFUSION .* OR, THE 


to trust himself there with me. Besides, where is the use of having a 
Machiavel like ine for your agent, if it is mere brute force that is to be called 
into practice?” 

“ But my Machiavel, like he from whom you borrow the name, seems to 
be dead and beneath the sod.” 

“ ‘ Resurgam /’ said the bravo. “ Count twenty, noble patron, and you 1 j 
shall have a stratagem worthy of my soubriquet .” 

“Twenty ! — there, suppose them counted ” exclaimed DeMara ; “and 1 
now for this notable device.” 

“ You give but short shrift : but I think I have it. Albert is only feared 
because he is loved by his sister — am I right so far ?” 

“ Ay,” said the count, “ but this only looks like begging time.” 

“ Does this so also? Let Albert be set at loggerheads with his sister, and 
his influence ceases.” 

“ That sounds well in words ; but I know not whose skill shall be 
enough to accomplish such a point.” 

“ [ think I observed yesterday where there was room to hitch a quarrel 
between them ; and at all events it will be worth the trial if it only serves : 
to furbish my somewhat rusted talents of intrigue, so as to give them more i 
insinuating readiness for the next attempt.” 

“ Well, as you like,” said De Mara, “ but now our time is precious.” 

“I will about it instantly ; but let me first understand how far I am to 
give an account of your actions to the lady. Are you to be in a complain- ? I 
ing, or a resisting humour to-day ?” 

“ To my fancy you had better leave me and my humours alone till 
you get the one thing you have undertaken fairly off your hands. It is a 
sad mistake of great geniuses to think they can never have enough to do 
at once.” 

“With all my heart!— the less to do the better; and therefore Master i 
Albert shall claim all my attention to-day. It is but saying, if the girl press f 
me on the subject, that I have not yet had time to sound M. Jacotot as to 
those quips and cranks of his present disposition.” 

“ Good ! let that be your cue to-day ; and now away, for the maiden 
expects you, and the earlier you pay your visit there, the better your oppor- »: 
tunity to fall in with Albert.” 

Urfort took the hint, and quitted the count’s hotel for the abode of Made- i 
line. He did not, however, stride along so eagerly as on the previous day, j 
for he felt that the task he had to perform that morning was one of a much 1 
more difficult nature. In his first interview with Madeline he had only the 
general purpose in view of gaining her good-will and confidence without i 
alarming her suspicions, or appearing to have too much cognisance ot 1 
things beyond his sphere : but on this occasion he had a much more intri- 
cate affair on his hands for management — he had to insinuate a displeasure 
which Madeline had never yet felt, and to sow the seeds of unkindness 
where nothing but the tenderest affection and solicitude had hitherto taken 
root; and all this, as if to render the labour still more onerous, was to be 
done under the guise of a rustic simplicity that forbade his putting forth the 
real strength of his latent energies, and that forced him to trust to darn, and I 
apparently unintentional hints and suggestions, in the hope that Madeline’s 
fruitful mind might adopt them, and give them the bearing and tendency 
for which they were purposed. 

It was on this account that Urfort’s step was less rapid, and his bound 
less elastic, as he made his way towards his second visit to the maiden. 
His had ever been a character prompt to act, and speedy in execution ; but 
still, as the most adventurous sailor would shrink from daring ocean’s peril 
without, at least, the compass to guide his doubtful ploughing of the deep, 

60 Urfort felt that with all his audacity for the undertaking, it would be too 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


*67 


| venturous even for his disposition to proceed without something like a chart 
1 laid down by which he might propose to steer. At present alT was barren 
f and vacant ; and as the schoolboy minces his morning gait that he may 
have an opportunity of conning his ill-learnt task, so Urfort dallied with 
' his pace that he might afford nimself still further time to prick his imagi- 
I nation into something like a point iVappui , round which he might rally his 
I surmises and suggestions. But even were such vantage-ground attained, 
what prospect was there that the arms he proposed to wield were sufficient 
I to gain the victory ? And here it was that what he had already appre- 
I hended of Madeline’s character became of use ; for he felt that had he to 
practise those distant hints on one of dull and unobservant impulse, his 
efforts would be in vain, and he should be compelled either to abandon that 
village simplicity which was his present guise, or the project itself which 
formed part of the motive why that simplicity had been assumed. But he 
had better hopes, from what he conceived to be Madeline’s temperament of 
mind. She was vivid in apprehension, quick in arriving at conclusions, 

I and, what was still better, seemed to have an active and sensitive disposi- 
| tion of thought, which was ever on the alert to conjure formations of its own 
out of the slightest materials afforded by others, and which took delight in 
magnifying, or rather in embodying and giving a substance to those things 
which were presented to her merely in embryo and obscurity. 

For a considerable portion of the interval between the count’s hotel and 
Madeline’s apartments, the pace of Urfort was such as has been described : 
but on a sudden it broke into its wonted speed and lightness of step ; and 
if the outward movements of man may be taken as indicative of the move- 
ments within, it might be inferred that some new light had crossed his 
mind, or that he had gained a footing whereon to build his operations, and 
that he once again found himself in a condition to face the victim, whose 
downfall was to be the criterion of his ingenuity in wickedness and mis- 
chief. 

Madeline was expecting her treacherous ally ; and when he entered the 
room she bestowed on him a smile, and almost sprang up from her seat to 
receive him, till the recollection of his menial condition sobered her in her 
place again, and taught her to establish a more cautious survey over her 
feelings. 

“ What news do you bring me of the count?” cried she. 

“My master has not sent me with any message to-day,” replied the 
other. 

“ But what is your own message, good Urfort ? What have you yourself 
gathered towards the— the— understanding of yesterday?” 

“Not much as yet, ma’m’selle, for M. Jacotot seemed to think me too 
simple to answer my questions in a straightforward way, though why he 
should have such notions is more than I can tell. I don’t think I am half 
so simple as he, for he talks for an hour, and, when the hour is over, has 
said nothing after all.” 

“ That is not amiss,” said Madeline with a smile, “ as a definition of 
simple conversation. But I should have thought you would have found a 
way of pressing him to the point.” 

“ Why, I did not well know how to do that, for M. Jacotot has lived at 
Paris, and is as slippery as an eel. When I thought I had got him in a 
corner, he slipped off without as much as saying good-by, and left me to 
follow as well as I could.” 

“ And so you came empty-handed V* cried the maiden in a disappointed 
tone. 

“ Not quite, Miss, for I bethought me of a famous scheme to get at the 
truth.” 

“ Ah ! what was that ?” 


169 


transfusion: or, the 


“ Why, as I found I could get nothing out of the man, I thought to my- ! 
self I would try what I could get out of the master.” i 

“ Good Heaven J” cried Madeline, “ surely you did not attempt any 
thing so foolish ? He was sure to descry your object, and discovery would i 
quickly follow.” ' t 

“ I took care to have no object, and so there was none for him to descry, i 
All that 1 did was to answer his bell when he was at breakfast this morn- I 
ing, and when he saw me he began just in the place I wanted of his own 1 
accord.” 

“ For the sake of mercy, tell me all that passed !” 

“ I don’t think I can do that,” said Urfort with a half grin, “ for my lord 
talked a great deal : but I dare say I can remember some of it. In the first 
place, you must know that when I went back yesterday, M. Jacotot took « 
your letter from me, and would not let me go in to the count myself, be- | 
cause, as he said, my lord was so angry at my delay. So when 1 went up 
to him this morning, he asked me how I came to be so long in bringing an j 
answer ; and I told him that you were interrupted from writing, first by 1 
Master Wahrend, and then by Master Albert.” 

“ And what did he say about Wahrend ?” eagerly inquired the girl. 

“ Oh, he said little enough about him, as if he scarcely seemed to like j 
to mention his name, but he said a good deal about Master Albert.” 

“About Albert!” exclaimed Madeline; “I am afraid if it was only li 
about him that he talked, that we are still as much in the dark as 1 
ever.” H I 

Urfort bit his lips, as he perceived the subject thus melting away, and j 
Madeline’s suspicions unaroused : “ however,” he added, “that was just J 1 
why I said I had not gathered much as yet ; but though the count laid all 
the blame on Master Albert, yet after what you said, 1 could not help | | 
thinking it was only a double of his, and that, the real thing lay with Mas- ! j 
ter Wahrend.” 

“ De Mara blame Albert !” cried the orphan ; “ in what possible way j 
could he do that?” 

Urfort brightened again, as he continued: “Why, he said that there 
was something very mysterious about the young gentleman.” 

“ Did he say that ?” exclaimed Madeline ; and then she half audibly 
muttered to herself, “ true enough ! true enough !” 

Urfort watched the progress of his words, and was at hand to follow up J 
the advantage he had gained. “ I do not know that I ought to have said 
he blamed Master Albert, for all he said was that this mystery was some- [ 
thing difficult to be handled, and it was unpleasant for a nobleman of rank, jl 
title, and estate, to have to encounter it.” 

“ That is not unjust,” thought the maiden. 

“ ‘ But then,’ ” added he, “‘no doubt, Mademoiselle Schvolen is fully : 
aware what all this mystery means ; — and yet no, for if she knew it, she | 
has that pure feeling that she could not leave me in doubt on so sensitive 
a point.’ And thus he seemed to be wavering backward and forward, and 
1 could not help thinking what a pity it was that you were not there to set J 
all right with a word.” 

“ Alas, alas !” cried Madeline, almost unconsciouslv, “ 1 have not the i| 
words with which to clear up his doubts, for my brother is no less am- jj 
biguous to me than to the rest of the world.” 

“ W ell, lady, I never should have thought of that ; besides, who knows 
but his grand mystery might be of use to us in finding out my lord’s dis- 
position? My old father was always telling us never to throw' away a 
straw, for even that might be of use to tickle a trout.” 

“ Right, right,” exclaimed the maiden ; “ and I will insist on a sister’s 
right to know what is passing in his mind. It would be pity, now 1 am | 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


169 

acquainted with one of the points pressing on De Mara’s mind, not to have 
it in my power at least to make that clear.” 

Urfort, delighted at finding that his suggestions had been received in the 
way his hopes would have dictated, took care, ere he went, to drop one or 
two further hints that might serve to fix Madeline’s attentions the more 
notedly. 

“ Yes,” said Madeline to herself, when left alone with none but her own 
busy imagination to bear her company — “yes, I will seek an explanation 
of this mystery from Albert. He has ever been next my heart, and he 
I has no claim to conceal from me the strange career in which he has of late 
been running. De Mara says right : the best title that rank has to the 
respect of the world, is when it sets noble and praiseworthy examples to 
I, those who move in a humbler sphere ; and I have therefore no right to ex- 
pect that a nobleman and peer of France shall, for my sake, overlook what 
may be supposed by the world to cast a dimness on the lustre of his house, 
though Heaven and my heart know that dear Albert is as incapable of 
thinking or harbouring evil, as Mont Blanc’s icy sides are of affording 
comfort to the adventurous mountaineer. I will seek my brother this in° 
stant : if need be, I will remind him of what we are to each other — I will 
• tell him how affection should be another word for confidence — I will spread 
! my own mind open before him, and he shall pour into it the strange and 
dark movings of his spirit, that have nearly made him forget humanity, as 
though he had a finer and more joy-bestowing world of his own in which 
; to live.” 

It was with such thoughts as these leading her on to her purpose that she 
entered the bed-chamber of Albert. But he was not there. The room was 
in disorder, and had not that air of neatness which was characteristic of 
her brother’s sober and decorous manner. It was long since she had been 
in his apartment, and she well remembered that when last there, her eye 
had, as usual, been struck by the air of decorum and order that reigned 
around, and was so characteristic of the well-organised habits of the youth. 
When, therefore, she saw how different was the aspect of the room on this 
occasion, it afforded her fresh proof of the entire change that had taken 
place in him whom she sought, and that something of real magnitude and 
impress must have effected the alteration. But another circumstance, 
trifling in itself, confirmed her still more strongly in this feeling. On his * 
toilet-table stood a small box, which was so little closed, that the whole of 
its contents were exposed to her view. These contents were nothing but 
a simple locket, with a ribbon attached, for the owner to suspend from his 
neck. Oh, how well she knew that precious trinket ! — that she did know 
it, that she prized it dearly, was evinced by the hundred fond kisses she 
bestowed upon it, as she took it from the box, and pressed it again and 
again to her heart and lips. That locket contained a single lock of her 
poor mother’s hair — a lock that had been cut from her head when youth 
and happiness had left its glossy beauties unsullied, and before the pinching 
hand of carking misery had cramped its texture, and made grey its raven 
freshness. It had been found, after her death, among the few relics that 
she had left behind ; and earnest had been the friendly contention between 
her, Seaton, and Albert, who had best title to its possession. At length, 
however, it had been yielded to the boy, in consideration of the heavy 
affliction with which nature had visited him, and in the hope that its pos- 
session might beguile some of the melancholy of his solitary hours. Dearly 
had he cherished it ! Warily had he hung it round his neck ! and if them 
was one thing in the world that, he appeared to hold co-precious with the 
apple of his eye, it seemed to be this extant relic of his mother’s person. 
With all these recollections rife in her mind, the finding it neglected and 
thrown aside, even for a moment, came over Madeline with a soit of sliud- 
51—7 


no 


TRANSFUSION .* OR, THE 


der ; and the remembrance of how Albert had looked and spoken when 
she was most deep in her grief and indignation at De Mara’s conduct 
with Mademoiselle Basault, returned with renovated strength to her ima- 
gination, and threw a covering of secret dread and misgiving on the object 
for which she was seeking her brother. But it must be done! The task 
was imperative ! and as she placed the priceless relic round her own neck, 
she resolved that obstacles should only strengthen her perseverance, and 
that difficulty should in like manner prompt her to more enduring resolu- 
tion. 

With her mind brought to this bearing, she anxiously awaited the arrival 
of her brother — not with that over-fed and unruly excitation of spirit that, 
had been her “ be all” on the night when she sought him for the purpose of 
making him the avenger of her offened love, but with a sober though full 
determination of so exhibiting the truth to his affection and his conscience, 
as to draw the mystery from the dark recesses in which he had hitherto 
appeared so eager so conceal it. But with all this honest strength of pur- 
pose to solace her, the hours waxed heavy to her expectation ; and it was 
with a feeling of secret dread that she 3aw the night gathering around her 
without witnessing Albert’s return. There was a mystic solemnity perva- 
ding what she already knew of her brother’s movements, which had instilled 
a sensation of awe into her mind in spite of the resolution of her soul, and 
she could not help confessing to herself that she would rather have de- 
manded this secret in the broad and open face of day than under the gloomy 
influence of the silent night. It was in the name of affection and every kind 
feeling of the human heart that she purposed to make this demand upon the 
secret store-house of her brother’s soul ; and affection swelled with joy at 
the cheering light of day > when all nature seemed to chime in harmony with 
its overflowing — affection shrunk with dismay from the sombre spirit of the 
night that conjured dark and troublous visions in answer to its honest voice. 

At length he came. Midnight and he came together. Madeline heard 
his light and easy step as he ascended the stairs, and she almost trembled 
for a moment when she felt that the time was arrived for making this 
strange inquiry of an unwilling heart. 

Another minute, and he was in the room. His eye, vivid and quick, 
seemed lighted with an elastic spirit from within, and his whole mien be- 
* spoke that mysterious satisfaction of heart, which she had noticed in him 
of late, and of which she was now to demand the reason. 

“You are late, rny Albert,” cried she, willing, if possible, to establish 
some sort of foundation on which to built her inquiry. 

“Late !” he replied ; “ it may be so ! but I have almost forgotten how to 
count the hours : — when it is day, l love the day because it glitters with the 
sun, and makes the summer birds trill their heaven-taught lay : when it is 
night, L love the night, because it has silenced all things, and left me undis- 
turbed to speak to my own soul ; or if a sound be heard, it is the note of the 
love-sick nightingale that steals the senses away, to establish a 3 till more 
exquisite one of its own production.” 

“ But will you not sup now you are come ?” 

“ My sister,” returned the enthusiast, “ I have supped.” 

“ Where ?’> 

“In the soft breeze of night — in the murmur of the splashing water — in 
the moon’s light, that touches the trees, as they say the Fairies touch the 
sands, with gracious but ineffectual print 1 have supped on the music of 
Heaven, and my soul is full.” 

“ O Albert ! what is this ? Has your sister lost the fink that bound you 
to her? There was a time when Madeline knew your heart, and when 
these things of which you speak, being enjoyed, were thought enhanced 
because she partook of them.” 


orphans of unwalden. 


171 


'* The time that was,” replied Albert, “ is and shall be still. But in those 
days, though I gazed on the moon and watched the water’s ripple, unkind 
nature had deafened me, and I heard not. Now my ears are lull of sweet 
and moving sounds ; and in my own estimation I am above the high poten- 
tate that commands a million million of miserable slaves.” 

“ Albert,” exclaimed Madeline, you have a secret at your heart — and I 
demand to know it.” 

As she spoke this, she rose from her seat, and placed herself before him 
with her full black eye fixed upon him, as though she would search the 
depths of his soul, and drag the mystery thence. 

The youth started both at her words and manner. They seemed to have 
invaded a domain that he would have held inviolable to aught that had human 
shape, and he shrunk from the application. At length murmured he, “ Well, 
be it so! say there is a secret. But let this be said too : — not a thousand 
tortures, more ingenious than a devil-minded man could invent, should 
wrest k from its hiding-place.” 

“ I believe my brother,” cried the girl with enthusiasm ; “but shall not 
the voice of a sister who has loved as our mother bade her love, do that 
which no inflicted pain could accomplish ? the traveller who laughed the 
fury of the wind to scorn, melted from before the warm embrace of Phoebus.” 

“ Ask it not ! ask it not !” cried the other orphan, “ it is the ambrosial 
food of my soul— the mysterious sustenance of my brain. Take my life, 
but take not my more than life away.” 

“ Oh, brother, how every word you utter urges me forward in the same 
direction, and bids me lay my claim at the door of your heart !” 

“ Then I will speak no more— yes, I will be dumb, as of old I was deaf. 
Leave me my darling mystery sacred and untouched, and I will in volun- 
tary act shut myself from man’s commune and talk only to my secret.” 

“ Albert,” cried the maiden, drawing from her bosom the deserted relic 
of her mother, “do you know this locket? Look on this fragment of our 
lost mother, and let your heart awaken to its pristine feelings. Can you 
not picture me her representative ? Seaton was fond of saying my voice 
resembled hers. Oh, imagine that it is she who speaks ! Believe that it is 
she who says — ‘Boy of my heart — of my earliest care and of my latest 
thought, speak to her who demands this pledge with that frankness which 
1 bequeathed you with my blessing. Tell her the mysterious secret that 
threatens to sever two hearts, which, if disclosed, will be more indissolubly 
joined than chains of adamant could effect.’ ” 

Albert melted into tears at this appeal to the memory of his mother : and 
when Madeline bade him listen to her voice as the type and semblance of 
hers, whose heart had ever commanded him, he looked as though some 
mighty contest of feeling occupied his soul, and was almost too much for 
human endurance to scratain. 

“ Oh that it should be thus i” he cried : “ when music implanted the first 
seeds of this strange mystery in my brain, I thought that it was there to 
shed a perpetuity of happiness on my every moment. It was for this I fos- 
tered the growth : it was for this 1 shouted with high rapt joy on the night 
when my faculties, wound to a pitch that promised all or nothing, caught 
the last link that was wanting from your impassioned features, and made 
sure the fulfilment of the secret” 

“ Is it so ? Then doubly have I claim to be partaker in its mysteries. 
For every reason am I authorized to urge my demand for knowledge : — for 
no reason are you entitled to withhold the tale that even now trembles on 
your lips, and that your honest heart yearns to pour forth into my ear. Do 
you doubt your sister, Albert?” 

“ Rather let me doubt all honesty and truth,” cried the boy, passionately. 
“ It is not you that I doubt, but myself. Oh, Madeline, I am not the crea- 


372 


TRANSFUSION : OR, THE 


ture that 1 was ! and the spirit of her whom you have this night invoked, 
could she see the change, would doubt it3 knowledge of me. I was gentle, 
and of habits formed ; — now, though I trust no ungentleness marks my 
course, my habits have passed into air — they are non-existent. I am a 
creature fitful in mood, and made up of strange and overwhelming thoughts, 
that feel their power, but find it of such vast and unwieldy nature that they 
know not how to exercise it.” 

“ But though you are altered, I am the same,” exclaimed Madeline : “ has 
not my bosom ever been the depository of your heart, and has not my advice 
ever been your consolation and pride? Again I say, I am the same ; then 
why not so with you ? A moment past, I invoked the secret in your 
mother’s name : I now invoke it in my own — in yours. Her dying man- 
date requires it. and our whole hope of happiness, peace, and affection, joins 
the requisition.” 

Albert was still in tears, and each word that his sister uttered seemed to 
reach his heart. At length he started from his seat, and as the maiden 
concluded those last words he rapidly paced the room. 

Suddenly he paused. — “ Sister, you have conquered,” cried he in a solemn 
voice ; “ but you must promise — nay, you must swear that what 1 reveal 
shall be unuttered and unhinted by you to any mortal being that moves on 
this living earth.” 

Madeline had not expected such an adjuration, and she paused ; for one 
of her undoubted objects in pressing for the disclosure was that she might 
be able to meet De Mara’s exceptions on that point. Still, however, she 
feared that should she object to what Albert required, the opportunity would 
be for ever lost ; and she was not without hopes that, once possessed of the 
secret, she might be able to alter her brother’s determination in this particu- 
lar ; or, on the other hand, the disclosure might be of such a nature as that 
she, as well as Albert, should be eager to "have it unwhispered to li vino 1 
creature. 

These thoughts flitted across her mind, and she exclaimed, “ My brother, 
I promise — I swear !” 

“ Nay, yet more,” cried the youth: “ there must be mutual confidence 
in all things between us.” 

“ It shall be so,” returned Madeline ? “ it shall be as though we had 
exchanged minds.” 

“ Gracious Heaven !” energetically exclaimed the orphan, as he started 
as though he had trodden on some fearful object — “ Gracious Heaven ! 
have I already disclosed the secret!” 

“ My brother ? — ” 

“ Did you not say that we would exchange minds ? Who bade you 
say that? Who told you that I had the power to do it ? What spirit of 
darkness have you been dealing with to know that the great mystery I 
have buried deep in my breast, enables me to transfuse one man’s mind into 
another’s receptacle for that undefined and immaterial essence ?” 

“ Albert, Albert, what is it you say ?” 

“ What is it you say exclaimed he. “ Is it all a phantom of this 
fevered brain ? or did you not hint that my secret was discovered, and that 
you had learned that even I, ignorant and untutored as I am, have grasped 
one of the most hidden mysteries of nature, and discovered the soul’s 

TRANSFUSION ?” 

Madeline tottered from her brother to a seat— “ Is it indeed so ?” mur- 
mured she, scarce consciously — “ can it be ! may it be !” 

“ Ay,” said the other, more soberly, but not less rapturously: “ it can ! it 
may ! it is !— ask not where the secret lies ! be content to know that I have 
it fast locked in the cells of my brain. The vast and incessant whirl that 
music’s magic force instituted in my soul stirred me almost to madness. 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEW. 


17S 


Like Columbus, I knew that there was a new world awaiting my discovery, 
but, like him, too, I was driven desperately from sea to sea, and my whole 
faculty and power of perception was threatened shipwreck by the very 

thoughts that were hurrying me forward to the goal. But it came at 

length it came. Like some sudden and momentary meteor it flashed in 
my mind’s eye: I was dazzled with the glare, and well ni<ffi overburdened 
by its magnitude ; but, the first shock weathered, and tSe reality of the 
wondrous power that enlightened me recurred again and again, till my soul 
became accustomed to the conviction, and w r as capable of feeding on the 
unutterable thoughts that it begat” 

“ Can it be !” still murmured Madeline. 

“ I tell you— ay ! — The world’s vain fools will cry ‘ fie’ upon it, and the 
wise in their own estimation wdll talk of ‘ out of nature but all their babble 
cannot eradicate the fact, which. is ever present here. What got Socrates 
for his wisdom ?— tie was condemned to death as a dangerous innovator. 
What Galileo ? — He incurred the lash of the inquisitor for making the sun 
the centre of his system and of truth. What Columbus ? — He w as laughed 
at as a visionary, till he laid his finger on America, and said, ‘ Here is my 
answer.’ W hy then should I not be called visionary, and be subjected to 
persecution? Welcome, welcome either, both, or any thing, as long as I 
«' can lay my finger on my forehead and say, ‘ Her stands the man that pos- 
sesses the secret of the soul’s transfusion — that can change his own mind 
with that of any other — or can pour that which is one man’s brain into 
another’s and reverse the operation as long as life endures.’ ” 


CHAPTER XXV. 

Here hope began to dawn: resolved to try, 

She fixed on this her utmost remedy. — D kyden. 

This, then, was the solution of the strange mysteriousness that had 
overhung Albert’s career from almost the very day of his being made per- 
fect in the attributes and faculties of his kind. In the knowledge of this 
vast and incomprehensible power lay the secret of his joyous looks, his 
bewildered gait, and his delighted and almost preternatural demeanour, by 
which he had given token of being, as it were, abstracted from the grosser 
particles of this world, and cased in a machinery that outdid mere human 
apprehension. 

But if he had evinced such unaccustomed signs ot the discovery with 
which his mind had grappled, still more wras Madeline moved by all the 
showra and properties of astonishment, when in the affection of his heart 
(to whose sovereignty he was still mortal enough to bow) he disclosed the 
secret which till that moment he had hugged so engrossingly within his 
own bosom. The brother’s mind had, to a certain extent, been prepared 
for the possession of so unheard-of a mystery by the very facts that had 
led him to one feature of it after another, till the w'hole was made manifest 
to his soul :— but with the sister there had been no such marshalling of the 
wray • she nad wandered on in utter darkness till the moment of Albert’s 
enthusiastic burst, which bore the secret, open and unreserved, on its 
surface ; and w'hen its knowledge was thus betrayed, and every cellule 
of her brain was filled, the change from dark to light— from all that was 
obscure to all that was elucidate— was so sudden, swift, and overwhelm- 
ing, that, her speech seemed to be snatched from her, and the whole consti- 
tution of her mind appeared to staggerunder the immensity of the burthen, 


174 transfusion: or, the 

which had thus in an instant been thrown upon it, unmoulded and unfore- 
warned. 

When Albert finished the words with which the last chapter concluded, 
a cold and heavy perspiration stood upon his brow, and he felt as one who 
has overstretched the natural power of his frame, and who, in proportion to 
the too much exertion he has undergone, sinks into too much weakness. 
The secret was declared— the mystery was clarified — and with slow and 
unsteady pace he sought the solitude of his own chamber, to mourn over 
the infracted unity of his precious discovery. 

Madeline remained alone in person, but the words of her brother had 
afforded her a companionship of deep and inexpressible interest. Once-— 
and once only — she asked herself the question— “ Can this be a wild chi- 
mera ? —something as inexistent and unreal as the fabled monsters of my- 
thology, or the pretended secrets of the dark ages ?” But the habit of a 
young and ardent girl is not that of scepticism ; and when she remembered 
the fire with which the words were spoken, the earnestness of soul that 
streamed from the narrator’s eyes, the moment of doubt was dismissed — 
for ever dismissed from her contemplation. It only wanted this to assure 
her in her thoughts that were fast rising in her mind — thoughts of wonderful 
contexture, and that filled her with the same living stream of delight that 
had already flowed so often and so bountifully through the soul of Albert. 

The next morning found her bathed in the same fountain of pleasure, 
but it gradually began to wear a more practical appearance. The question 
came to her mind — “ Is it not possible to make this strange discovery ap- 
plicable to the same business in which Urfort is now being employed?” 
and an affirmative answer irresistibly offered itself to her busy imagination. 
Attending to the present impulse of her mind, all that she cared about in 
the whole circle of human events was to ascertain beyond doubt the real 
tenor of the Count de Mara’s feelings towards her. It was for this that 
she had dared the adventurous hazard of employing one of the count’s 
own dependents, at whose mercy she was every moment lying, and whose 
betrayal of her secret would necessarily tend to lower her in the estima- 
tion of him whose good opinion was more valuable to her feelings than all 
her earthly hopes. But how safe and how easy in the comparison was the 
aid that could be afforded by the employment of this mysterious agency, 
which was within the grasp of Albert’s power! Urfort’s assistance, even 
supposing him to be honest, and all danger on that score to be nugatory, 
was uncertain, and might turn out profitless, while now, on the other 
hand, there was offered, ready to her use, a means by which she could 
with mathematical precision ascertain the minutest turn of thought of 
which the nobleman was possessed. 

Why, then, should she hesitate which of the two to adopt? Yet still 
hesitation there was ; for she could not without an effort bring her mind 
to the resolution of employing so strange and unaccustomed an instru- 
ment, even to a purpose that seemed to have taken up its everlasting abode 
in her heart. However much it may be within human nature to love the 
mysterious, it is equally its characteristic to shrink from the individual 
exercise of it. A story of the marvellous and preternatural, employed by 
another, bears along with it an irresistible excitation ; but, when the spirit 
is called on to launch itself into the unfathomable ocean, where human 
knowledge has never entered, and of which human experience can give no 
account, it involuntarily shudders at the thought of such a task, and feels 
cowed at the wild obscurity of the enterprise. Thus it was with Made- 
line. The ardent flow of words with which her brother had described the 
gigantic faith which she was called upon to receive, had made her bosom 
heave high with nervous rapture ; but when the idea of herself first under- 
taking the peril of practically elucidating what as yet presented itself only 


OKPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


175 


as a beauteous theory to her imagination, was forced upon her mind by 
the tempting prospect of discovering beyond doubt, and beyond denial, 
the actual current of thought that ran through De Mara’s soul, her heart 
acknowledged a tremor, which even the single empire of the impulse that 
was upon her was unable altogether to subdue. All eager, and all zealous 
as she was, she hesitated — for the first time in her life she hesitated. 
Hitherto we have seen how the vehemence of her spirit caused her in- 
stantly to leap to the execution that was proposed, without giving one 
moment’s consideration to what might follow. It was this that had in- 
volved her in a quarrel with her uncle ; — it was this that had made her so 
harshly dismiss Wahrend at the cottage-door, and so unjustifiably feed 
him with hopes on his re-appearance at Geneva ; — it was this that had 
made her so heedlessly avail herself of Urfort’s services in the prosecution 
of her design upon the count. But this time she hesitated. And why ? 
It was not a looking forward to the consequences ; — it was not a weigh- 
ing or a balancing of the advantages to be derived against the ili that 
might possibly accrue. No ; — it was, that her mind, powerful, ardent, 
romantic, and headlong as it was, could not all at once muster the great 
and last stretch of resolution which that human being must have who shall 
dare to overstep the seemingly prescribed bounds of nature, and enter on 
a world unknown, undefined, and uninvestigated. 

Thus, for awhile, she doubted. Thus, things of another world held her 
in suspense ; but in proportion as they were obscure and indefinite, they 
allowed her thoughts to range, and give them what aspect they would. In 
the meanwhile her disposition was stationary ; and while her bouyant fancy 
enabled her gradually to abstract what was gloomy and threatening in the 
picture of which Albert had been the original inventor, (though she was 
the composer and filler up of the canvass,) her eager spirit, ever at work 
and on the alert, was urging her forward to the undertaking. 

It was resolved. The last faint clouds of doubtful agitation were dis- 
pelled by the brightness of her hope ; and the sky seemed clear and pro- 
mising to her expectant heart. Yes, the soul of De Mara should be 
probea by the infallible and mysterious test, which, through Albert, she 
had within her control ; and the puny and underling assistance of her for- 
mer coadjutor should be foregone, as insignificant, and even ridiculous, 
when compared with the mighty touchstone she was about to wield. 

Scarcely was this important resolution concluded in her mind, when Ur- 
fort entered. He was an unwelcome visiter, for he reminded her of a rash 
step that she had adopted, and for which, now that this change in her 
power had taken place, there was not even the apology of utility to offer. 
When, therefore, she perceived his entry, the first impression of her mind 
was to get rid of him as rapidly as she could, in order that she might, if 
possible, get rid of the reminiscence to which his presence gave rise, and 
abandon herself to the pure, unshackled speculations which the knowledge 
of Albert’s secret infused into her imagination. 

“ Do you bring any message from the count?” demanded she, in reply 
to his rustic bow. 

“No, my lady,” answered the man ; “it was at your bidding— not at 
my lord’s, that 1 came this morning. I thought that perhaps, though I 
had not much to say, I might as well run here to tell that little while he 
was dressing.” 

“Not to-day! — not to-day !— Never mind for the present !”— returned 
Madeline, in a hasty manner “ but — but— perhaps you may have heard 
the count say what his intentions for the day are ?” 

“ I know that he said to the Chevalier Altoz, who breakfasted with him, 
that he hardly knew what his intentions were, for the unpleasant reflections 
which the conduct of Master Albert — ” 


176 


TRANSFUSION : OR, THE 


“ How dare he throw blame on conduct so unimpeachable ?” interrupted 
the girl, with vehemence in her manner : “ the conduct of Albert may be 
too lofty for comprehension, but I vouch its admirable excellence.” 

Urfort knew not how to reconcile this speech with her spontaneous ad- 
mission at their last interview, that there was something in her brother’s 
behaviour that required explanation ; but at all events it served to put him 
on his guard, and he proceeded cautiously — “ Nay, Ma’m’selle, I do but 
repeat what I heard said while I waited at the breakfast-table ; but perhaps 
I had better not tell what the chevalier replied to my lord’s complaint.” 

“Yes, yes,” answered she, “let me hear all, if it leads to any conclu- 
sion as to when I may see De Mara. I well know Altoz is no friend of 
mine ; and therefore his remarks cannot wound me.” 

“ 1 am glad you know that, for I thought it very ill-natured of him when 
he said that the best thing my master could do, was to give up the matter 
altogether; and then he laughed and said, ‘Do but pay a visit to Madrid, 
and I will answer for your finding beauties enough there to make up for 
your loss here.’ ” 

“ And the count— the count — what said he? — Ctuick, on your life tell me 
every syllable he uttered in reply !” 

“That’s just w'hat I am not able to tell you, Miss,” said the other, warily 
pausing in the right place, “ for at that moment I w’as sent down stairs for 
some bon-bons, and when I returned with them, I found the chevalier had 
risen to take his leave.” 

“ My good fellow,” said Madeline, after a minute’s pause, during which 
she seemed to be taking counsel of her thoughts, “ I can now' tell you the 
whole service that I require at your hands. It amounts to this — that [ 
should have an interview with your master without fear of interruption.” 

“I am sure you need only write to the count for that.” 

“ Nay, nay, that will not do. When I say ‘ without fear of interruption,’ 
l — I — mean that even he himself must not have the power to interrupt me. 
You seem not to understand me ; yet it is plain enough. Cannot you con- 
trive that I — and perhaps my brother — should have admission to him when 
he is taking his siesta after dinner? Introduce me to him as he sl^ps.” 

“ My lady!” exclaimed the seeming menial. 

“ I mean no harm, good Urfort,” cried the orphan, scanning the astonished 
countenance of her listener; — “I mean good to all. On the faith of 
Heaven, nought else ! — Assist me then in this, and your task shall be at an 
end, to be rewarded to the utmost of my ability.” 

“ I do not doubt your intention, of course, lady, for 1 am sure that never 
would you do any thing to bring a poor fellow into trouble. But how' is this 
to be done ? There are a thousand things to prevent it — none to assist it.” 

“ Be it your care to employ Jacotot, and the rest will be easy.” 

“But supposing my lord should awake while you are in the room?” 

“ That can easily be prevented by an opiate, which you may mix in his 
wine when you help him during the dinner-service.” 

“ Well,' my lady, I can’t but say that I am afraid of the job. But I should 
be sorry to let my cow'ardicc stand in the way of your happiness and my 
lord’s ; and I am sure that you would not attempt any thing that did not 
mean that.” 

“Right, right!” cried Madeline, enthusiastically : “the angels be my 
witness that I seek nought else— that I pray for nought else.” 

“ Then 1 will see what I can do : — perhaps it may happen, now that I 
wait so much upon his lordship, that Monsieur Jacotot may get a holiday, 
and then the coast will be clear.” 

“ If so, the better. But the thing must be done immediately : to-day, it 
is too late, I fear ; but to-morrow— yes, to-morrow— suspense and I must 
shake hands for ever.” 


ORPHANS OP UNWALDEN. 177 

“ To-morrow, lady * Well, I can but try ; and at all events you shall 
see me in the morning to know how for I have succeeded.” 

1 Urfort was too happy to be released not to take the first opportunity of 
making his escape ; and he was too full of the strange and unaccountable 
variation in Madeline’s demeanor not to hurry to the count’s hotel, and lay 

I before him a statement of what he was able to describe, but not to explain. 
“ By Janus and all his double-faced posterity! continued he, after nar- 
rating to the astonished De Mara the conversation which had taken place 
between himself and the maiden — “ the girl has this time fairly won my 

I heart, and I should be proud to be the father of such a piece of fear-nothing 
resolution. It did my whole spirit good to watch her manner, and observe 
how she made a proposition, the bare mention of which would send nine- 
tenths of her sex into hysterics, with a coolness that would have been 
creditable to our Fifth Harry at Agincourt, when he turned out his handful 
of brave souls against I know not how many thousands of your country- 
men. But what the devil does it all mean ? There’s the beauty of it. It is 
as pleasant as a conundrum over a sea-coal Christmas fire ; — and for my- 
s self, I intend to allow a whole week to find out the riddle of it.” 

“I hope not,” said the count; “ for every thing I hear about the maiden 
serves to show me that there is not a moment to be lost ; and I think it 
would be as well, if you would look at the thing in the same light, or your 
j second hundred louis are likely to remain in the mines of Peru.” 

“ But what think you, most excellent patron, is the meaning of this new 
freak of her fancy ?” 

“ Psha ! I think it means nothing, and that it is as you say, merely a 
new freak of her fanc}\ We have no time to trouble our heads about the 
whims of a romantic girl : she must be carried, Master Urfort — she must 
be carried ; for I am well-nigh tired of this see-saw of do-nothing, and am 
determined that this next week, which you so judiciously proposed dedica- 
ting to the discovery of this childish enigma, shall make her mine.” 

“ Nay, I never intended wasting a minute of real business-time on such 
• a pursuit, but only meant that I would keep it by me to give a relish to my 
visit to Kobolt’s black corks when each day’s work is over. And now 
what would your lordship have me do ?” 

“ In the first place a thorough negative must be put on this ridiculous 
crotchet in which she would have employed you ; and in the next I would 
have you follow up the project in which you took Altoz’s name not in vain, 
as 1 hope. Let her be brought to imagine that I am on the eve of bidding 
farewell to her and Geneva, and the thing must come to a crisis.’’ 

This plan seemed to coincide with Urfort’s views, and the two worthies 
occupied themselves in discussing its various bearings, in order that the 
latter, in his next interview with the orphan, might be prepared to drop such 
hints as should hurry her on to action, without affording her any period for 
deliberation. The peculiar vocation to which De Mara had devoted him- 
self since he had felt the force of woman’s charms, enabled him to suggest 
almost every possible contingency or difficulty that might arise ; nor did 
his assistant display less knowledge, though on a broader and more unre- 
fined scale, in the same untwisting and making simple the knots of in- 
trigue ; so that, before they separated, Urfort felt himself more entirely 
master of his position than he had hitherto been, and the count gave him 
his conge for the night, in the full assurance that enough was arranged to 
impel Madeline irresistibly forward into the snare that was prepared for her 
entrapment. 

In the mean time Madeline, having formed her resolution, and having 
also, as she thought, smoothed the way for its successful accomplishment, 
waited with impatience for the arrival of her brother, that she might apprise 
him of the manner in which she designed to make this first use of his arca> 


178 


TRANSFUSION : OR, THE 


num. But though she had to wait for his coming, the intervening time she 
did not deem ill employed in pourtraying to her fanciful spirit the various 
ways in which the service of this potent agent would give her the mastery 
over De Mara ; and when she remembered the ungentle advice which 
Altoz had proffered in temptation of her lover’s loyalty, ten-fold and twenty- 
fold did she rejoice that she was possessed of the wherewithal to balance so 
invidious a makeweight, and hold up a mirror in which the exact line and 
boundary of the chevalier’s influence should be reflected to a nicety. 

With these feelings deep-seated in her bosom, and her soul alive with all 
the eagerness of an end to be accomplised, her meeting with Albert that 
night seemed to presage auspiciously, and give pleasant note of preparation 
forerunning her success. That her brother would consent to her proposition 
she had not for a moment doubted ; and when, instead of seeking his own 
chamber with stealthy pace, he came directly into the apartment where she 
was in the habit of sitting, and appeared before her with cheerful face and 
a light heart painted in his countenance, she hailed these signs as excellent 
omens of her suggestion being received by him with the same unity of sen- 
timent that it had afforded to her own heart. 

“ Madeline,” said the enthusiast, as he placed himself by her side, “ 1 am 
but a wayward creature ; and yet I trust that the end will show that the 
purpose of my mind is faithful, and that I am about to acknowledge no 
principle which has not honesty of intention for its beginning and its finish.” 

“ What means my brother ?” 

“ I mean,” replied Albert, “ an apology to my sister for what may have 
appeared strange, but was not intended so. When the mystery, of which 
you last night witnessed the explication, was hanging over my faculties in 
all the darksome grandeur of obscurity — or when it burst forth on that night 
when your wild and uncontrolled expression of features lent it a flame by 
w’hich its beacon-piles, wanting only that, were seta-blaze — was it wonder, 
was it marvel that the young and unformed mind of a scarcely more than 
boy should be bewildered in the vast labyrinths that such a subject at once 
threw open to his consideration? And when last night your searching 
and heart-wringing words tore the secret from the receptacle in which I 
fondly hoped that it was for ever buried, was it a matter of surprise that I 
should mourn over the lost singleness of my knowledge ? Let this, Made- 
line, be the key to what is passed ; and since it is destined that in the de- 
tails of this wonderful unhinging of the door that Nature has established 
for the soul of man, we are to go hand in hand, from this moment let my 
chary and abstemious eagerness to have the secret all my own be forgotten 
between us, that we may with the more real and lasting enjoyment, whis- 
per to each other the wild thoughts that our joint knowledge will originate ! 
Let the unsharing dream of my youthful blood be forgiven ! Let my un- 
couth demeanour, my solitary wanderings, my unwise avoidance of the 
open confidence of a sister’s heart be forgiven and forgotten ! Henceforth 
we will be one, single and indissoluble, even as though we had practised 
this great mystery on ourselves, and each had received the other’s soul 
transfused. Excuse these many words, my sister — accept them in apology 
of my past silence — and let the Orphans of Unwalden hereafter live, as 
they were bidden in those last and touching sentences of our uncle’s letter.” 

Madeline listened to her brother’s address with the profoundest atten- 
tion : each word that dropped from his lips made her heart more and more 
glad, for she saw in them, as she thought, the free pledges and forerunners 
of his acceptation of the proposition she was about to make. 

But he ceased ; and she replied, “Enough, and too much, my brother. 
In all that you have described I recognise but the simple dictates of nature, 
and cannot feel that I have a right to utter one word of reproach ; — most 
sure I am that I have no inclination to do so. It was not till last night that 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


179 

the true test of your heart’s affection was applied ; and believe me I feel 
not only satisfied, but grateful at the result.” 

“ M y own sister,” exclaimed the youth, “I had but to explain the truth 
to receive her heart. That which I have said, therefore, was rather in 
acquittance of my own conscience, than in doubt of your feeling : but it is 
past — never to be revived. And now, what of this strange mystery that 1 
grasp ?” J J 

Do yoif think you can bear to talk of it fully and freely ?” 

“ It is to that that I have been tutoring my mind. I shall not be sur- 
prised if at first it shrinks from the touch of another person’s thoughts : 

but you know all ; and will therefore understand how to make allowance, 
should it involuntarily shudder. If I have been able to probe my own 
feelings, it will come upon me as when the first chords of music penetrated 
my ear : it was a sweet pain, a thrilling agony ; but the first assault en- 
dured, the suffering gave way, and delight and ecstacy alone remained.” 

“ So it shall be here,” cried Madeline, if the kind voice of affection may 
do as much. Let us put it to the proof on the instant, and teach one an- 
other the inestimable value of the gift you have bestowed on me.” 

“ That has been the chief thought with which I have fed my soul from 
the first moment of the discovery. The idea of how many minds I would 
peruse— how many actions I would scan by their true touchstone, the brain 
— how many magnificent movements of the soul I would enjoy — came 
over me like some vast fairy vision of delight, and my whole imagination 
was in a state of rapture. Teach me how to improve this, my sister, and 
I will worship you.” 

“At least I can counsel you to make what is now only imaginary, a 
reality and a fact. I would have you throw aside the mere ebullitions of 
your fancy, fevered as it is by the excitement of this strange business, and 
ascertain in good earnest of what stuff this mystery is made.” 

“ What would you have me do ?” 

“ I would have you say, ‘ Let this thing be.’ I do not ask the process 
by which you may accomplish it. I will not seek to examine too deeply 
tne chain which enables you to hold the more essential part of man under 
dominion, and to transgress the ordinary laws of nature ; I only desire to 
witness its practical effects — to feel its actual operation.” 

“ Ask it not yet,” exclaimed the youth — “ ask it not yet ! Do not think 
that I am wanting in moral courage when I confess, that at the contempla- 
tion of making this principle effective, my whole nature seems reluctant to 
the task. I know that I have the power; — I feel it mighty within my 
breast ; but some sensation, unutterable and undefinable, seizes on my 
mind when I say to myself, ‘ The time is come : 1 will prove this mystery.’ ” 

“ There is no matter for surprise in this” returned Madeline ; “ but that 
which you feel is but a morbid shrinking from the necessity that there will 
be to string your whole soul to the whole labour. I can well imagine that 
to do this requires an effort ; but it is an effort that must be undertaken, 
and the longer you allow yourself to linger on the borders, the more irre- 
sistibly will this feeling take possession of your mind.” 

“ You have in part described,” said the other orphan, “ whence arises 
this emotion ; but you have not yet arrived at the more impressive feature 
that holds me back. My secret is my mistress — my bride ! I am wedded 
to it, hea^t and soul ; I have endowed it with my richest and most worthy 
thoughts ; and it is because I have done this that I shrink from holding it 
up to the glare of day, and challenging the gaze of the world’s folly, or 
the world’s wisdom. It is the chosen of my heart, and I cannot endure that 
it should be public to the examination of all who please to pass their com- 
ments on it.” 

“ I do not think,” replied the maiden, “ that this is a different feature, but a 


180 


transfusion: or, the 


portion of the same. Once summon the energy to make the mystery prac- 
tical, and you will find that both will disappear at the exercise of the one 
effort.” 

“ But will the practice reward me for its use ? The world is not so full 
of excellence as I thought it on the day that Yaldi gave me my hearing. 

I walked abroad, and heard a hapless female, whose face alone bespoke 
the deepness of her want, ask alms, for pity’s sake, of a trim and gallant 
master ; and while I could have wept at the accent of her voice as she 
spoke of ‘ pity,’ he whom she addressed stalked on, with his head high in 
air, as if he heard her not : and then I pitied him, for I thought that this 
well-dressed walker had, like me, been born deaf, and never met with a 
Valdi to give him the blessing that Nature had denied ; — but he was not 
deaf, for presently he met a friend, and they chatted and laughed, while 
still the poor creature stood at hand, and made my ears ache at her tremu- 
lous tones. This was my first lesson in the world’s ways, but it has not 
been my last ; and again and again I tremble lest a particle of my priceless 
secret should be whispered in such callous and unhallowed ears.” 

“ This is going into the other extreme,” observed Madeline ; “ for it 
does not necessarily follow, that, because you so far unlock the mystery, 
as to make it practical in one instance, all the world will be informed of its 
existence. Let me be the subject on whom you operate — you shall not find 
me tremble or shrink ; and when the experiment is over, and I am restored ! 
to the original action of my own mind, whom safer could you have to investi- 
gate as to the effects that so wonderful a transfusion must induce ?” 

“ Perhaps it may be so,” replied the brother ; “ but at least let me have 
further time for its consideration.” 

“ No, Albert, no ; it is from that which I wish to drive you. Why should ; 
you pause when you grasp the power, and when I am ready and willing to 
be the instrument? — We must on — we must on, for my soul is on fire to 
enter on such unknown regions, and to be able to canvass the hidden Ij 
secrets of its neighbour. I scarce know the mysteries of my own brain ; — 
then how strange and wonderful will it be to enter upon those of another — ■ 
take possession of the contents that till then lay fast locked within, and 
peruse in distinct character all that, nature and disposition has there : 
inscribed !” 

Albert’s eyes kindled as his sister described a portion of those thoughts 
which had so long and so fully occupied his own brain ; and catching an 
equal ardour with her own he exclaimed, “ It shall be ! it shall be !” Then f 
again he wavered, as if still unable to conquer the aversion that he had to 
rob his mind of the abstract theory that possessed it ; and he continued in a I 
tone more subdued — “But you forget, my sister; there must be a second I 
party to this proceeding. Where are we to find one whom we may trust, 
and who will be willing to undergo the experiment ?’’ 

“ I have already foreseen that question,” replied Madeline, who was 
delighted at the prospect of having her scheme against the count crowned 
with success — “ I have already foreseen that question, and have made my 
choice.” 

Albert looked at her uneasily as he exclaimed, “ The name ! The name !” 

“ The count De Mara,” replied the sister resolutely. 

“ No, no,” cried the other, “ never will I consent to such a selection. 
What ! put my dear, my precious secret, that lies in my heart and excludes 
all other thoughts, in the power of De Mara ! Rather would I foreswear its 
ecstacy and raptures for ever ! Rather would I banish it henceforth from 
my mind ! Rather would I be again made deaf and unconscious of the more 
excellent delights of which hearing only can partake!” 

“But you have not heard the whole of my plan,” said Madeline; “ like 
yourself, I feel so envious of the secret, that I would not have it whispered 


> 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 181 

to another living being. I have not therefore proposed that De Mara should 
be its participator, but that he should be the unconscious instrument.” 

“ Unconscious instrument !” 

“Yes; we will steal upon him when he sleeps. Let transfusion then 
take place ; and how is it possible that he will know what has happened ? 
At the worst, he will but wake in the fancy that he has had some wild and 
incoherent dream ; and the real solution of the mystery will for ever remain 
hidden from him.” 

“ I like it not,” replied the brother, “ nor can I in any way bring my 
mind to contemplate De Mara’s having any share whatever in the matter. 
He has ever been too wise and cunning for both of us ; and if I do not hate 
him, at least I fear him, and will never put what is more precious than life 
itself within the possibility of his reach.” 

“ But every thing is prepared for the plan I have proposed,” exclaimed 
the maiden. 

“Heaven and earth 1” cried the other with emotion, “surely he knows 
nothing yeti Surely not one syllable has been breathed by which he can 
trace my power! Oh, Madeline, I had hoped that when he so deeply in- 
jured you, and gave you proof how he could wantonly neglect and even 
torture you, that he had sown that within your bosom which could not so 
easily be forgiven.” 

“ I have not forgiven him,” cried the girl ; “ and it is because I have not 
that I make this proposition. Besides the soul-stirring wish that I have to 
trace this mystery to the very uttermost, I would penetrate by its means the 
hidden cogitations of De Mara’s bosom, for it is by that alone that I can 
learn how to deal with him 

“ Leave him and his cogitations alone, my sister ; and deal with him 
only through the medium of a silent contempt. On this, too, rely; the more 
you come in contact with him, the more he will gain mastery over you— and 
your only safeguard, therefore, is his avoidance.” 

“ It cannot be,” exclaimed Madeline ; “ I have bound myself to the labour 
of meeting his endeavours ; and it must be done. I now call on you to 
assist me in this attempt with your mighty and mysterious power ; I demand 
your aid as your sister and the sharer in your secret.” 

“No, no, no!” returned Albert hastily: “on De Mara my discovery 
shall never be practised. Each day 1 sicken more and more at the very 
mention of his name; and no power on earth shall bring me to make the 
experiment that you require at my hands.” 

“Be not rash, Albert,” cried his sister ; “you cannot doubt my affection 
or my love : — let me not then have occasion to doubt yours. Exercise your 
power as I would have it, or cast me off at once : I know no medium ; nor 
can I understand those nicer distinctions of feeling that lead you to refuse, 
and to couple with so cruel a refusal a pretence of kind-heartedness which 
cannot in such company be really entertained.” 

“ Are these words to me ?” exclaimed the brother ; ‘ and dare you doubt 
my affection ? Do you remember last night ? Do you remember how I 
tore in pieces the web that my fancy had woven around my discovery for 
the purpose of admitting you within its precincts? Do you remember but 
ten minutes ago, when I gave up the sanctity and fine abstraction of my 
secret in obedience to your prayer to make it practical and effective ? And 
after this, can you — dare you doubt my affection i?” 

“ Prove its entireness by yielding this last point ; or let me have none 
of it.” 

“ You have my answer,” cried Albert ; “ never shall De Mara be instru- 
mental to the developement of transfusion.” 

“ Then never will Madeline have faith in such half-love and affection. 
Rather would she wander, alone and unbrothered, over the surface of the 
51—8 


192 


TRANSFUSION : OR, THE 


globe ! Rather would she penetrate the entanglements of some unexplored 
forests, till she arrived where man’s foot never yet trod, frightening the 
solitude of unnumbered ages with her exclamations, ‘ l have no brother! — 
I have no friend !’ Albert, farewell ! ,! and with disappointment in her 
manner, and anger deep-seated on her brow, she quitted the room. 

The youth looked after her with astonishment. He would have stopped 
her; but he knew not with what words, or with what comfort. To risk 
the possibility of De Mara being a sharer in his discovery, his every feeling 
forbade : — to persuade his sister under the present vehement impulse of her 
spirit to give up the proposition, was hopeless and not to be entertained. 
Albert, therefore, though he would have stopped her, could not : all he 
might do was to watch her hasty but deep-resolved steps ; and as she closed 
the door he felt his heart sink within him. It was not in his nature to refuse 
any thing to Madeline ; and though a firm and thorough conviction in- 
formed him that in being thus determined he had adopted the more judicious 
course, he felt as if his conscience half reproached him for having so perse- 
veringly withstood her prayer. What had passed was a sad and grievous 
prelude to the all-relying confidence which but half an hour before he had 
been proposing to his sister ; and though he stole forth again to seek his 
late prized solitude, he could not help doubting whether he should now reap 
from it that single and entire enjoyment, which for the last month it had 
bestowed on his delighted feelings. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

\ 

So ready to be gone ! Barbarian, stay ! 

He’s gone, and love returns and pride gives way. 
Oh, stay ! Come back ! — Granville. 


The next morning Madeline found the usual hour of Urfort’s daily visit 
fa3t approaching, but she knew not how to receive him. He would come 
with hopeful words on his lips to give her to understand that the train was 
laid to secure her secret visit to the count’s apartments, while she who was 
the chief plotter and mover of the scheme was unprepared and unable to 
make use of the opportunity that would be brought to her very hands. 

And why was it that she had failed in the attempt 1 Angry as she w r as 
with her brother, her candour, however distorted by the influence of dis- 
pleasure, would not allow her to deny his general kindliness of nature • 

and yet she had failed in the most important request she had ever urged 
upon his heart. Why was this ?— Either she must have asked that winch 
it was even beyond Albert’s affection to grant, or she must have pressed it 
upon him on grounds that failed in making the requisite impression on his 
mind. The first of these alternatives she would not— could not— admit • 
for so necessary did her request still appear to her to be for the well-beim* 
of her connexion with De Mara, that her whole impulse and feeling forbade 
the confession that she had gone beyond the boundary of what she might 
demand or her brother might grant. The second seemed more admissible, 
for her conscience could not deny that she had put before Albert for his con- 
sideration a motive-not the true one. Why should she have disguised the 
fact ? Why should she not have told the real state of her hearkand have 
confessed that with all De Mara’s slights and neglect, she loved him still? 
It was true that no human being cares to stand convicted on self-confession 
of a weakness or a want of sustaining the proper dignity of their person : 
but, on the other hand, had she described to her brother the perturbed and 
wretched state in which her whole faculties were placed by the harassing 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


183 


suspense in which the nobleman had kept her for the last week, the rebuff 
she had received at his hands would have been spared ; and at that very 
moment when she was deploring the failure of her enterprise, they would 
probably have been deep in council together for the furtherance of an 
object, which would bring the genuine condition of her lover’s professions 
within her knowledge and comprehension. 

What then was there which prevented her adopting, though late, this 
straightforward policy with her brother, and relying on the kindness of his 
heart to confirm what the yearning of her spirit demanded ? One circum- 
stance, and one alone, seemed to stand in the way of such a measure. 
Her behaviour to W ahrend in his presence, since the renewal of their con- 
viction, had undoubtedly been such as to lead her brother to believe that he 
; had always been entitled to a favourable position in her bosom: she had 
been able to perceive in Albert’s manner towards the Swiss a sort of self- 
gratuiation that he had stepped in to put the pretentions of the nobleman 
to flight ; and the conscience of Madeline could not help admitting that so 
far from intervening to correct this error of her brother’s apprehension, she 
had rather fed the mistake by at once admitting Wahrend to all his former 
privileges of acquaintanceship, and by again inducing him to confess the 
passion which he had first learned to entertain for her at Unwalden. With 
what face, then, would she be able to confess to her brother that her affec- 
tions were irrevocably bestowed upon the count, when she well knew that 
her conduct towards the Swiss had strongly impregnated the youth’s mind 
with the hope that his old friend was to be the successful candidate for her 
favour? and how could she throw herself upon his fraternal bounty, when 
the first word he would have to utter in reply, would be a reproach for the 
ungenerous deception she had exercised towards himself, and the most cruel 
hopes with which she had nurtured his friend’s pretensions ? It was true 
| that the manner in which she had given Y/ahrend his congi on the morning 
of her first interview with Urfort, as well as that in which she had received 
Albert’s intercession in his behalf, might have somewhat shaken the faith of 
the latter as to the certain success of the former ; but, nevertheless, she 
could not flatter herself that Albert had really arrived at the motive which 
had ind uced her to lend a willing ear to the revival of Wahrend’s tale of love. 

! » But still, with all this heavy account against her, might she not hope for 
her brother’s succour when she should lay before him a candid display of 
the errors and impulses of her heart ? To defend the encouragement that 
she had been giving to the Swiss was impossible — to palliate was perhaps 
hardly within her power : — but at all events she could present it with the 
misgivings and reproaches of a contrite heart t.o Albert’s notice j she could 
herself be the first to condemn what no human subtlety could justify ; and 
the error committed, she could repent, like her first mother, and exclaim 

« Bereave me not, 

Whereon £ live, thy gentle looks, thy aid. 

Thy counsel, in this uttermost distress, 

My only strength and stay ; forlorn of thee, 

Whither shall I betake me, where subsist ?” 

The false step that she had made was a grievous one : but, though late, 
she mi^ht retrieve it to a certain extent, and, casting around her the mantle 
of contrition, hope to conceal the deformity that she had vlountarily assumed 
under the dominion of her hasty temperament. 

But the essence of repentance lies in deeds, not words. What would 
Albert require at her hands in proof of the earnestness of her sorrowing ; 
and could she not by forerunning that requisition present to him the best evi- 
dence of her sincerity?— Wahrend had been most unfairly dealt with. It 


184 


TRANSFUSION : OR, THE 


would be mainly on his behalf that her brother could complain. Through 
Wahrend therefore must emanate the peace-offering which she would 
proffer to her brother. But how might this be accomplished ? Affection 
she could not tender to the Swiss ; for it was the mighty predominance of 
that feeling towards De Mara that was urging her to the humiliations 
which she proposed, but to which her high spirit could hardly stoop, though 
her conscience insisted on their justice, and her judgment was decisive in 
favour of their wisdom. Wahrend, however, had a noble and undeviating 
candour of mind : — from his lips reproach had never come, when in the 
injustice of her anger she had, on quitting Unwalden, forbade him her 
presence ; and in the whole of his intercourse with her he had shown that a 
manly straightforwardness of demeanour, joined to a simple but earnest 
desire to deserve well of her, had been the motive and principle upon which 
his character was grounded. Why, then, should she not make the same 
confession to him, that a minute before she had resolved to make to Albert ? 
Why should she not tell him that her heart was unable to love— that her 
soul was bleeding for the unkind deceit she had practised — but that to show 
she was not utterly unworthy, she had at least honesty enough left to throw 
herself upon his generosity, to implore his forgiveness, and even to hope, in 
bidding him farewell for ever, he might endeavour to forget the past in the 
tardy justice that had brought her to this confession ? — She would do 
this ! — She would make this painful but just avowal of her fault to the 
honest-hearted Swiss, who, in meeting the candour of her bosom by a more 
than equal candour in his own, would become the best and most effectual 
surety that she could offer to Albert in earnest of the sincerity of her feelings. 

Her mind having adopted this resolution, she was better at ease with 
herself —not because her labours were at an end, but because she thought 
she saw an effectual way in which to meet the difficulties that presented 
themselves. It required an effort to bring herself to consent to relate the 
real truth to Wahrend; but when she remembered how unfairly she had 
led him on to his present position, she felt that such a course was the only 
apology or extenuation within her reach ; and the frankness of her disposi- 
tion, ever ready to teach her justice as the vehemence of her passions to 
lead her astray, summoned her to a task which womanly reserve would 
have bidden her shun. 

She was half-debating in her mind whether she would send to request 
Wahrend’ s presence, or take the chance of his calling in the course of the 
day, when U rfort made his appearance. 

“ I hardly know,” said he, as soon as he had executed his usual bow at 
the door — “ I hardly know whether 1 shall be welcome to-day, Miss ; for 
I can make nothing of this siesta business. I am afraid it must be a wiser 
head than mine to manage it — at all events in such a hurry.” 

“There is no great hurry, good Urfort,” replied the maiden, somewhat 
mournfully ; “ take the next day or two to think of it, and perhaps by that 
time you may be more successful.” 

“ I am glad of that,” cried he, and he spoke the words with true sincer- 
ity, for he had hardly known how to meet the orphan so as to get rid of 
her request for the present, and introduce the real object of his visit “ I 
am glad of that, for a day or two may make all the difference. But I was 
afraid you would not hear of it : so that I should almost have scarcely 
cared to venture here this morning, but that my master has sent me with 
a letter to you.” 

“ A letter to me !” exclaimed the maiden, as she took the paper offered by 
the man ; “ I like not these letters ! Why does not De Mara come himself !” 

No reply was made to this by Urfort; and, indeed, Madeline did not 
seem to expect any. It was, as it were, a question addressed to her own 
musing spirit, as she held the missive from the count unopened in her 


OHPHAKS OF UN WALDEN. 185 

hand, apparently unwilling to receive so poor a substitute for him whom 
; her eyes longed to behold, and her heart to welcome. 

At length the seal was broken, and she read these words : — 

“ Dearest Madeline, — Several days have now elapsed since I have al- 
^ lowed myself the pleasure of seeing you. Day after day an unconquer- 
able hesitation ana reluctance have prevented my explaining the reason 
/ of this. One moment I have determined to seek an interview — another to 
K write, that I might not embarrass you with an unexpected statement. I 
[ feel, however, that this duty in one shape or the other has become impera- 
tive upon me, and I have preferred the latter, that you may not think it is 
my intention to take you by surprise. 

“The cause of my absence is Alberti Do not think that, in saying 
p this, I am about to alarm your affectionate feelings towards your brother 
r by bringing any accusation against him. Far be it from me to wish or to 
dare to take such a step. But we are all to a certain extent more or less 
fl the creatures of the world ; and those who rank highest in it are perhaps 
|j more its creatures than those whose humble lot allows them to pass through 
i the mazes of life unnoticed and unobserved. 

“ I need not point out to you, that since your brother’s happy restoration 
to hearing, some strange and unexplained principle of action has guided 
i his whole career. I observed it myself, but chose to make no remark, 
! fondly hoping that it would escape the observation of others ; but such has 
I not been the case. More than one of my friends have spoken to me with 
| great seriousness on the subject ; and, what is still more painful, some 
most officious person, I find, has been waiting to my uncle, the Due de 
i Montaison, on whom, as you well know', much of my future prospects 
!j depends. Two days ago I received a letter from that nobleman, informing 
me that he was given to understand that the brother of the young lady to 
whom I was attached was pursuing a most extraordinary career — that he 
had refused the assistance, and even the companionship, of the musical 
i professor W'ith whom he had been provided — that his movements were alto- 
; gether unaccountable— that he stole out of the city at all hours— that he 
| was absent from home in the depth of the night — and that, in fact, he had 
attracted so much suspicious attention, that my uncle was informed the 
police of the place had thought it to be their duty to establish a watch 
upon his motions. ‘These are strange things,’ continues the Duke, ‘and 
must be examined. The Count de Mara, a peer of the Freneh empire, 
and the possible heir of the Due de Montaison, has high duties to perform ; 
and he must be wary, lest, in early life, one of his first and most important 
steps should involve him with parties whose faults will be by the world 
identified with himself.’ 

“These, dearest Madeline, are the Due de Montaison’s own words. 
What am I to do ? I do not pretend to find fault on my own behalf— I do 
not pretend to demand any explanation ; but, on the other hand, this is 
certain— that the Duke, both on his own account and on mine, has a right 
to demand explanations of me ; and these explanations I have it not in 
my power to give. 

“ The Duke is not a little alarmed by the accounts he has heard, as you 
will easily understand, when I inform you that he insists upon my journey- 
ing to Paris instantly, in order that his mind may be satisfied by a personal 
inquiry of me into the circumstances. 

“ Again I must repeat — what am 1 to do ? and how am I to meet my 
uncle’s investigation ? 

“ Yours, dearest Madam, 

“Very devotedly, 

“ De Mara.” 


8 * 


186 


TRANSFUSION : OR, TH® 


What a letter ! Every word as she read it, seemed to penetrate deeper 
and deeper into her brain, and to leave a more searching mark behind. 
But, agonizing as the words were, they were not half so agonizing as the 
fact that the charge contained in the letter was founded in truth. A mys- 
tery there was ! — an explanation there ought to be ! — but that explanation 
she was bound by solemn promises neither to give nor to hint at. 

Might not Albert, under such circumstances, be induced to relax some- 
what of her vow of concealment ! But, alas ! there was no time for execu- 
tion to bear out such a hope. She had parted from him in anger, and he 
was wandering through the solitudes the neighbourhood of Geneva afforded, 
to feed his thoughts with that joy which his sister had refused him ; and it 
might be night, or it might be even morning, before he again made his ap- 
pearance at his lodgings ! 

Yet something must be done ? — some sort of answer must be sent ! But 
what should that answer be ? 

The letter threatened departure. It was evident that it was hinted at 
throughout, though not openly avowed. On her reply would rest the balance. 
How could it be phrased to stay his motions ? 

Alas ! she knew not. Her every faculty was afloat to invent the mea- 
sure ; but they were in so mingled a state of turmoil and confusion, that 
they did nothing but feed upon and repeat the question — “ How could she 
stay his motions ?” without offering a single suggestion in reply. 

Yet to think of his departure was madness — to think of his going to bow 
to the influence of such a man as his uncle was more than madness ; for 
often had De Mara told her that it was only under his repeated solicita- 
tions that the duke had consented to his proposals to her, and the letter of 
that uncle too plainly showed what his commands would be. 

Well, she would write! But, in spite of her determination, it was with 
unsteady hand that her pen traced these words : — 

“ The Count de Mara demands an explanation which Madeline cannot 
give ; but of this she is convinced — that if the count will but postpone the 
journey which she presumes is hinted at by his letter, her brother will, on 
his return this evening or to-morrow morning, undoubtedly afford any elu- 
cidation that may be necessary to those movements which she ihanks the 
count for not receiving in the suspicious light which some ill-wisher of hers 
, has endeavoured to force upon the Due de Montaison.” 

The letter was no sooner finished than she gave it to Urtort, as if glad to 
rid of so painful a subject : — “ Go back with the answer immediately,” 
cried she ; “ but at all hazards you must return hither, that I may know in 
what manner it is received by the count.” 

“ But suppose, my lady, — ” 

“ Suppose nothing !” interrupted she, angrily : “ you must return hither, 
for it is life and death to me to know what symptoms of resolution De 
Mara evinces on his perusal of my answer. Guick, quick — go with it; — 
for I shall be labouring under a thousand tortures till I see you back here 
again.” 

W ell might she describe her mind as labouring under a thousand tor- 
tures ! A young girl, without compass or rudder, she had been thrown 
upon the sea of passion ; and the strange whirl of events that she had had 
to contend with during the last few days had become almost too much 
for the capability of her faculties. Reason, the only guide that could have 
assisted her through so troublous a navigation, was overborne by the tide 
of sensations to which the headlong nature of her disposition allowed full 
force and power ; and each new change of circumstance that had been 
hurried upon her, was driving her still further and further from all oppor- 
tunity of regaining her former means of prudence and caution. 

De Mara threatened immediate departure ! In that thought alone there 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDF.N. 


187 


were a myriad of sharp-pointed daggers gathering round her heart. If he 
once quitted Geneva, farewell hope, farewell success, farewell happiness ; 
for dread despair would enter as he went out, and render the city the abode 
of misery and wretchedness ! Of what avail then would be the boasted 
power, which, through Albert, she had hoped to hold over the secrets of his 
soul ? Of what effect this preternatural research into the hidden things of 
his heart, when he had fled from her neighbourhood to bow before the dic- 
tates of an inexorable uncle ? 

But still there were hopes — there must be hopes : — for to think, even for 
a moment, that there were none, was placing the hand of death upon her 
heart, and giving the only object of her soul to annihilation. Her letter 
promised fair, at least, to stay his progress till an interview had been had 
with Albert ; — and to one of two points she was resolved to bring her bro- 
ther — either to afford a sufficient explanation to De Mara— or to consent to 
an immediate use of his arcanum in the way that she had already fruitlessly 
urged upon him. 

In putting together such thoughts as these, in which hope and fear held 
alternate dominion over her, she passed the time tillUrfort made his re- 
appearance. 

“ Do you bring an answer from the Count de Mara?” exclaimed she, the 
moment he entered the room. 

The man shook his head, as if the action was intended to forerun the 
reply, and then said, “ I heard nothing about any answer, unless indeed — ” 

“Unless what?” cried Madeline, who perceived that he paused in what 
he was about to say. 

“Why, my lady,” continued he, “ when I got to the hotel, I found the 
Chevalier Altoz with my master ; and the chevalier was insisting on the 
risk which the count was running, in not having sooner obeyed the letter 
that he had received from the Due de Montaison.” 

“ Ay, ay,” muttered Madeline, “ I thought I knew who one of the count’s 
disinterested friends was, that were urging my brother’s conduct upon his 
notice. But what said he to my letter ?” 

“ The count, after reading it himself, gave it to the chevalier to read.” 

“Indeed ! Oh, Madeline, how low thou art fallen in thy estate!” and 
then with an effort she demanded — “ and what was Altoz good enough to 
say in its favour?” 

“ I did not hear him say any thing in its favour, ma’m’selle ; for, after 
he had read it, he went on to contend more than ever that the count was 
bound to set off immediately for Paris ; because, as he said, to wait in the 
expectation that Master Albert would submit to an examination, was an 
absurdity.” 

“ And what said the count?” 

“ Why, 1 did not hear much that he said, for, while the chevalier was 
going on at this rate, I was sent down stairs ; but presently after that the 
bell rang, and I went up again ; — and then the count told me that I was to 
bid Monsieur Jacotot prepare a portmanteau for his instant departure, and 
that the rest of his luggage was to be got ready to follow after him ; and then, 
as I thought l was not likely to hear any thing further, I came away to you.” 

“ You have heard quite enough,” exclaimed the orphan, with anguish in 
her voice— “ and I too much ! Go, go, good fellow ; I have no further occa- 
sion for you. And yet, perhaps— no, there is nothing left for me '. —Yes, 
you may go.” 

Urfort, unwilling, or unknowing how to make any reply to observations 
that came so evidently from the heart, withdrew, while the unhappy girl sat 
and strained her eyes after him ; each step, as he descended to the street, 
was counted ; — and when the outer door closed after him, she murmured to 
herself, “ So perishes all hope !” 


188 


TRANSFUSION : OR, THE 


The Latin poet was too limited in his philosophy when he told the world 
that “ anger is a short madness.” Every passion in its excess arrives at 
the same result. Every passion, when its power is so great as to drive be- 
fore it the more calm and reasonable determinations of the mind by “the 
whiff and wind” of its exuberance, is a madness, as far as the unseating of 
the human judgment is such. When reason and discrimination prevail, 
the soul has its genuine tone; — when passion, with- its ravishing strides, 
has seized upon the brain, the tenour of the soul is unnerved, and subject 
to the mercy of each succeeding gust. 

The rage and strength of the impulses under which Madeline's soul had 
been driven for the last week, began to be too much for her. She had as 
yet fought a gallant battle .—she had met ambuscade with ambuscade, 
manoeuvre with manoeuvre, attack with attack. But it was against fearful 
odds that she had been contending. De Mara had been against her— Ur- 
fort had been against her — and, what was worse than ten thousand De 
Maras, or ten thousand Urforts, herself had been against her. 

In spite, therefore, of all her efforts, the clouds of discomfiture were fast 
gathering around her. Little by little she had been weighed down by the 
variety and force of the attacks she had undergone ; and in proportion as 
she had gone beyond her strength to resist them, in the same proportion, 
now that she began to give way, did she yield to the current that had set 
against her, and feel the impulse of the pressing stream. 

The mixture of Albert’s preternatural knowledge, to which she had 
attached such price, had probably assisted in producing this result. It was 
a sort of treacherous ally that had at first insinuated itself into the strong- 
hold of her brain, and then suddenly giving way when its aid was most 
needed and relied upon. In one of her most desperate struggles to coun- 
teract the intrigues of De Mara, she had leaned upon this prop for support : 
it had sunk beneath her weight, and the turn against her had in conse- 
quence become still more powerful and headlong. 

When Urfort quitted her, hope went with him. Never before had it so 
entirely left her. When De Mara had roused all her indignation by his 
conduct at the ball, hope, though it seemed dead for awhile, still lingered 
in the midst of the despair she had felt ; and since that time the darling 
visitant of every human heart had rather gained strength in her bosom, than 
lost it. But her despair now seemed irremediable : the departure of De 
Mara was a circumstance which her imagination had never contemplated : 
— the placing of hundreds of miles between them was a feature which all 
her consideration of the case had never suggested. Let that once happen, 
and death could not too soon befriend her ; for even all her ardour of tem- 
perament was not able to feed her with an expectation that, once departed, 
he would ever again find his way to her feet. 

But if this were hopeless, it appeared equally hopeless that any art of 
hers could stay his journey. What if she went to him ?— What if she wrote 
again ?— What if she entreated ? — No ! hopeless, hopeless, each and all. 
His journey was resolved, and her evil genius, in the shape of Altoz, 
stood by his side to prompt him to its instantaneous and irretrievable 
adoption. 

Thus she looked around her, and found that all was darkness and de- 
spair. She still would have contended against fate itself, but she felt that 
the hand of events was upon her, and prevented the action of her thoughts. 

It was the worst disease of the mind under which she laboured — a con- 
sciousness of what was wanted, joined to the incapacity of devising any 
medium through which that want should be supplied. She was like the 
hapless traveller in the desert — alas ! to well awake to the burning and un- 
quenchable thirst that had taken possession of him, but looking in vain for 
the means of allaying it. 


ORPHANS OP UNWALDEN. 


189 


Are we to wonder then that with disappointment for her portion, and the 
threatened departure of De Mara hovering over her as the finishing stroke 
to this scene of sorrow, that a species of madness seemed to assert its em- 
pire over her. The weak point of her character* as we have hitherto seen, 
was the impetuosity with which she embraced the first offer that her fancy 
suggested, whereby to conquer any difficulty under which her mind was 
labouring. This arose from the ardency of her temper being too great to 
allow her to weigh those consequences, which to a calculating head would 
appear likely to follow ; and not from the want of power to make that cal- 
culation, had she chosen to apply herself to the task. But now that events 
had become too painful for her endurance, what was formerly a weakness, 
grew into a confirmed disease. The good and the bad, the right and the 
wrong, became so mixed and indistinct in her brain, that it was unable to 
hold the balance between them, and she was ready to receive the very first 
proposal that a disturbed and heat-oppressed imagination might offer for her 
adoption. The machinations of those who had resolved her ruin had sur- 
rounded her ; and in first token of their success, her airy and romantic 
mind, which, had it been fostered, would have shone lovely and various as 
the rainbow of spring, had melted into a cloudy and overcast gloom, which 
threatened the universal deluge and destruction of her faculties. 

But though ready to embrace any opportunity that might present itself, 
her overborne mind, stretched beyond the tone of nature’s function, was 
unable to suggest a movement. She sat, where Urfort had left her, unable 
to conjure a thought of her own, and waiting for some' external impulse or 
circumstance to awaken her from the helplessness that had superseded the 
vigorous action of her mind, which had hitherto prevailed over every diffi- 
culty, as long as there was aught of hope remaining at the bottom of her 
Pandora box of misery. 

While thus stationary and irresolute, she heard a foot-step upon the 
stairs. Whose might it be ? She hardly knew for whom to wish and 
to dread the presence of any was past, for her wretchedness had reached 
its climax, and she defied all that man could do to add to what was already 
full to overflowing. 

It was Wahrend whose step she heard. When he entered the room, 
her head mechanically bowed in acknowledgment of his presence, and her 
lips moved in silent show of greeting ; but it would perhaps be too much 
to say, that she did any thing to evince her consciousness of the individual 

E erson who stood before her. At all events the occurrences of the past 
our had completely driven from her memory all those honest resolutions 
which had graced her repentance towards the Swiss, and her gaze upon him 
was not sufficient to call to her mind the duty that his mal-treatment de- 
manded at her hands. 

« Mademoiselle Schvolen,” said fire visiter, as he took his station near 
her— “I am come to say farewell fur the last time. Be not angry that I 
have this duty to perform ; for this time, at least, it is you, not I. that have 
entailed this task upon me.” 

The sorrowing girl looked at him, as if listening to his words, and again 
she bowed her head but doubtful it is whether a syllable of his speech 
made an impression on her mind, save only the word “ farewell,” that 
jarred on the much-fretted chord of her heart, and gave her that involun- 
tary shudder which her companion could not but notice, though he hardly 
knew how to account for it. 

“ Believe me,” continued he, when he saw that she was not preparing to 
speak, “ I come with no reproaches on my lips.— Nay, 1 even think I have 
almost dismissed them from my heart, though for awhile they may haunt 
the place, like the shadow of something that has ceased to be. I am more 
willing to believe my judgment, than your sincerity, has gone astray. But 


190 


transfusion: or, the 


be it as it may, ‘ farewell’ is the only word I would utter, and < farewell’ is 
the only worn that 1 would have in reply.” 

“ Farewell !” murmered the orphan “ oh, yes ; you shall have that 
word a thousand— and a million times, for you ask the only sound that my 
lips are able to utter.” 

“ Farewell ! farewell !” cried the Swiss ; “ and may you be more happy 
with the Count de Mara, than you seem to think I could make you !” 

“ Happy with De Mara !” shrieked Madeline ; “ who are you ?— and 
who gave you license to plant daggers in my heart? Wahrend, I think 
you are ; but Albert must have been at work, and given you some other 
soul ; for the Wahrend that I knew was kind and gentle, with a mind as 
incapable of cruelty as De Mara’s is of humanity.” 

The Swiss turned away his head at these words, and sighed deeply. , 
“ What does this mean ?” at length he said : — “ what is this maze into j 
which I am plunged, and which one moment seems to promise the dearest ! 
of happiness, the next the most carking of misery?” 

“ Let them mean the last,” exclaimed Madeline ; “ and I will be your i 
faithful companion.” 

“ You my companion,” returned the other: “if that could but be, they : 
should mean any thing or nothing. You my companion ! and yet do not i 
use that word, for it was the happy term that dwelt upon our lips at Un- i 
walden, before I had tasted sorrow, or you had been tempted to ” 

“ To betray, you would have said. Spare not the word. Spa,re not the 1 
belief, I have some flitting recollection passing through my mind that I 
had something to say to you about betrayal. But it is gone for the present. 
Another time I will tell it you ; and if you are indeed Wahrend, with his 
honest heart yoy shall thank me for my words ; at least I thought so this 
morning.” 

“ Madeline, what say you of another time ? Oh, do not again mislead 
my hopes ! Deep was the resolution that I had formed: — great was the 
controul 1 put upon my feelings, before I could determine to come and say 
* farewell.’ — Let us be honest, though too plain words should be spoken in : 
its cause. — Is it De Mara or myself who claims your heart?” 

“De Mara a claim upon my heart !” exclaimed Madeline vehemently ; 

“ yes, such a claim as the tiger has upon the deer, or the eagle of the sun 
upon the lamb. Wahrend, when we meet again, never let that name pass 
your lips !” 

“ Is it possible,” cried the Swiss, with astonishment mixed with delight 
in his voice ; — “ is it possible that my fears have deceived me, and that the 
Frenchman is no nearer than myself to your heart ?” 

“ Nor so near,” replied Madeline ; “ for 1 am not yet so lost to sense and 
feeling as not to know the claim of honesty over villany.” 

“ Villany ?” 

“ Of the deepest die — if insult, treachery, and falsehood can make the 
mixture.” 

“Are these words in earnest?” exclaimed Wahrend, with strong emo- 
tion in his voice. 

“ Look at me ; and let that tell you whether I am in any humour to 
speak at Folly’s bidding. Do you see the laugh in my eye, or joy on my 
cheek ? If you do, they belie the agony of my heart, that should be writ- 
ten in every line of my countenance in characters as deep as the grave.” 

“ And De Mara has caused all this ?” demanded the Swiss. 

Again Madeline bowed her head : the action, which before was tame 
and mechanical, now came strong upon her questioner’s imagination, as 
though a thousand voices had acclaimed in confirmation of his asking. * 

“ Heaven give me power,” cried he, “ to think of these things with calm- 
ness ! But think of them I must. Oh, Madeline, I knew you in your 


ORPHANS OF UNYVALDEN. 


191 


happmess-wo is me ! I know you in your misery. In that happiness I 
was a sharer ; and now I claim a right to partake in your sorrow. PP I claim 
it on your own words. \ou called on me to be your companion in wretch- 
edness, and I answer to the cry.” 

‘‘No, no, Wahrend— this must not be. I have injured you already too 
much Your name and my uncle’s will ever be a reproach to my tfeart 
1 will be companion to myself, for no one can better or revenge my cause ” 

t c J i 4 U 11 j^ ng , e !t V crled Wahrend, with fervour ; “ and I will revenue it. 
I feel the difficulty of my position ; but give me leave to speak to this man, 
aud I will hazard the inference.” 

* n vain, good Wahrend,” returned the orphan, mournfully* “for 
De Mara quits Geneva this day. Perhaps ere now he is beyond its walls ” 

“ His journey must be prevented,” cried the Swiss. 

“ What say you? What say you ?” exclaimed the orphan with vehem- 
ence : ‘oh ! repeat that again ! Tell me that you will see De Mara, and 
not let him depart till this explanation is given ; and I will thank you with 
my latest breath — I will thank you on my bended knees.” 

“I promise it, Madeline : — from the bottom of my soul I promise it.” 

The look of the bewildered girl brightened as the Swiss pledged his faith 
to stop the count’s departure. The solemn manner m which she had bound 
herself to dismiss Wahrend, with a candid confession of the deceit she had 
practised on him, died away from her mind; an «i Again a faint glimpse of 
hope stole into her heart, as she heard him ykedge himself to do that which 
should prevent for awhile the journey of the nobleman. Wahrend, as he 
gazed upon her, observed the change in her aspect and he again reiterated 
his promise. 

“ But it must be done quickly,” cried she ; “ I know, from too certain in- 
formation, that this day he quits the city for ever, so that not a moment is 
to be lost.” 

“The sooner the thing is undertaken, the better will it correspond with 
the present temper of my mind,” returned Wahrend: — “I thought that I 
had come hither to say farewell for ever ; but your words have instilled 
fresh joy into my heart ; and it is now with gladsome voice I say fare- 
well, for I look only to the hour when we are to meet again.” 

“ But you will see De Mara now?” 

“ In one hour from this time I pledge myself t$ be with him ; and in two 
expect to see me return, the comforter of your sorrow. God bless you, 
dearest Madeline!’’ added he, in conclusion, and his voice somewhat 
wavered as he spoke — “ in two hours, Heaven permitting, we meet again.” 

With these words he departed, and Madeline was left alone. For a mo- 
ment she asked herself the question — what might so grave a leave-taking 
portend ? but the thought speedily merged in the one absorbing recollec- 
tion that his errand was to De Mara, and that his pledge was to prevent his 
journey for that day — perhaps for the next, and the next. Here, then, 
again was time to work in. Albert must be found — Urfort must be sent 
for — the train must be laid — the arcanum must be put in operation, and her 
sole concern of heart must be confirmed or disbanded irretrievably and for 
ever. 

It might be that for a moment she entertained a thought as to the man- 
ner in which Wahrend would proceed to stay the nobleman’s departure; 
but it was on this point that the diseased state of her imagination chiefly 
betrayed itself. So far she felt her weakness as to know that she had in 
vain taxed her brain to discover a device by which that object might be 
accomplished, and that Wahrend had pledged himself to do that which 
was beyond the scope of her power of apprehension. But there she stopped. 
The chain of reason in her mind was too much broken to allow her to 
pursue the subject, for the purpose of seeing by what method the Swiss 


192 


transfusion : or, the 


would make good his bond ; and when she touched upon the point, her 
whole faculty became bewildered and astray. The source of her perception 
had been disturbed, and it no longer flowed in a clear and unbroken stream. 
It was as though one of her senses had fallen away, or been blasted by the 
fire of her own brain, as the solitary oak that grows upon the marish heath 
has one side of its magnificent overspread struck by the lightning that 
accompanies the storm : to the casual observer it seems a tree entire ; but 
when walked round and examined, the injury becomes evident and declared. 
Thus it was that Wahrend had not appreciated the change that had taken 
place in the orphan. His path was honest and straightforward, and he 
little weened that it was necessary for him to wind round and round her to 
interpret the real meaning of the scene that had just passed between them. 
Madeline had but one object in her heart — to stay the journey of De Mara ; 
but all-important as that object was to her, she had been forced to acknow- 
ledge to herself that her invention was at an end, and that it was in vain 
that she taxed her ability to meet the difficulty. In this situation she had 
been encountered by Wahrend. He had promised to do that for her which 
she was unable to do for herself. It was for this that she had thanked him ; 
— it was for this that joy had again illumined her countenance. All this 
was too subtle for Wahrend's comprehension: — a more agreeable solu- 
tion of what had taken place lay nearer the surface, and, having found 
that, he did not trouble himself to look farther for what might be moro 
true — but, at the same time, more unpalatable. 

It has already been said that a gleam of hope once more showed itself to 
Madeline. But it did not find her as of old. Her brain had received a 
shock which quiet and tranquillity could alone restore : the new expectation, 
therefore, that had been lighted in her bosom rather did her harm than good, 
for it again launched her into the stormy sea where she had so long been 
tossed about at the mercy of her persecutors : — instead of peace, it brought 
anxiety ; instead of tranquillity, a continual turbulence and harassment to 
the imagination. 

Yes, once more did she resign herself to the ardours, the heart-movings, 
the excitations, and the disturbances to which the name of De Mara had 
for so long a period been the key. Once more she resolved to seek Albert, 
and entreat him by every«%rgument she could enforce upon his feelings and 
affections to submit his discovery to the test which she had proposed. Once 
more she determined to send for CJrfort, and bid him prepare for those ar- 
rangements, which Albert’s consent would be the signal for putting in requi- 
sition. These, however, were but the minor points which were to marshal 
her the way to the grand desideratum on which her whole stake depended ; 
and therefore, whatever gloomy anticipations she might have as to the result 
of the latter, of the success of the former her excited imagination would not 
allow her to doubt. Urfort must prepare the plan that she should dictate to 
him, and Albert must yield to the irresistible fervour of her pleadings, when 
he was made aware that he held the balance of his sister’s contentment in 
the one hand, and of her perdition in the other. 

But where was she to find her brother ? Each moment pressed ; and she 
could better afford to lose half her existence at another time than half an 
hour at this. She had not seen Albert since the period when she parted 
from him with anger in her eye, and indignation on her brow, at his perti- 
nacious refusal of her proposal. She therefore knew little of his movements 
since that time, but she was sufficiently acquainted with his general habits 
to fear that she must not expect to see him till the night was far advanced. 

She would, however, go to his room, for, though he might not be there, it 
was possible that she might find some memorandum or token by which to 
judge of the probability of his return. 

She went ; and, to her surprise and delight, found him whom she sought. 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


193 


His being there was not that her recollection of his habits was incorrect, 
I but on his way from home he had been met by Wahrend, who had made 
i him acquainted with the determination he had formed of visiting his sister 
for the last time that morning to bid her farewell for ever, and who entreated 
f him by his old friendship for him to accompany him back thither. 

“ I will go with you,” said Albert, “ and should it be necessary, make my 
appearance : but I cannot see any thing to call for that, and I would there- 
•; fore rather wait in my own room till you know whether you need my 
V presence.” 

r Wahrend had consented to this arrangement, but the unexpected turn 
f‘. his interview with Madeline had taken had caused him entirely to forget 
r that Albert w as waiting for him ; and he had therefore taken his departure 
1 to seek De Mara without exchanging a w'ord with the youth. 

When Albert heard the door of his chamber open, he looked .up with the 
r expectation of seeing W ahrend enter. When he perceived that that expec- 
1 tation was disappointed, and that it was his sister who was present, he 
I started, for he remembered the manner in which he had last parted from her, 
pi and he knew not in what tone of mind she again appeared before him. But 
r| though this thought flitted across his memory, his anxiety still was to know 
what had come of the Swiss; so that as she approached the place where 
he was sitting, he almost involuntarily exclaimed, “Have you not seen 
h Wahrend?” 

“Yes, my brother; and he has taught me to bless his name, for he has 
I shown himself the friend of my affliction. He has undertaken the com- 
I mencement of that labour which it is for you to consummate.” 

“ What mean you, Madeline? I thought that he had come hitherto say 
III farewell for ever, and to quit Geneva for a happier spot.” 

“ Let no one quit Geneva !” cried the girl. “Oh that some besieging 
(, army were at hand to prevent a single living creature departing from its 
I precincts !” 

i “ Tell me, Madeline— was not ‘ farewell’ the word that came from the 
ij lips of Wahrend ?” 

“It was!” relumed she, with a sickly smile ; “but we all think that 
' ‘ farewell’ is to be said, before there is any necessity for it. It is a grievous 
| heart-heavy word, and should not be spoken lightly.” 

* “ To what is this strange discourse to lead?” demanded Albert. 

“ It must lead to the alteration of your unkind resolve, that has haunted 
me with evil omen each moment since we parted. But forget what you 
I then said, and glad my heart with the signal of consent.” 

“Sister, it cannot be ! I thought our last interview was of too painful a 
nature ever to have been renewed. Why do you thus revive the subject 
each moment that we come together ? Do you think I love to refuse you 
that which you demand ? Do you think that I have ventured to do it from 
any light or fickle resolution ? Believe me, had not my w^hole soul revolted 
at the thought, I would never have subjected myself to such a scene as that 
which has so lately passed between us. Madeline, dear Madeline, pause 
in good time, and never again speak on this topic.” 

« Albert, I must speak on it. I must make this demand at your hands ; 
and rather let me conjure you to pause before you break my heart, and con- 
firm this wild beating of my brain, that threatens I know not what. De 
Mara is on the eve of departure : — this very day he would have gone, but 
that fortunately is averted. The delay, however, is but of short interval : 
to-morrow, perhaps, he leaves the city, never to return. Albert, I pray you 
by all that sister can pray by, to be speedy in your consent.” 

“Why not let De Mara depart?” _ 

“ No, no,” interrupted Madeline ; “ I must read his heart, or die. r or 
ever — yes, for ever, have we separated ; but at least let me have the satie- 
52—1 


194 


transfusion : or, the 


faction of knowing what, he really thought of one who has thrown away her 
affection for him, and who now only thinks of his name with a shudder, as 
the old man looks back at some mad hair-breadth peril of his youth.” 

“ Madeline, is this true ? Have you indeed banished De Mara from your 
heart? And shall Wahrend — •” 

“Wahrend shall help me in my task,” she cried; “he has this day 
shown himself the same noble, disinterested, kindly creature, that we ever 
knew him to be.” 

“ Those are indeed his attributes. But how is he to help you ?” 

“ De Mara threatens departure,” replied the agitated girl ; “ but good 
Wahrend has promised to take care of that.” 

<■' Wahrend !” exclaimed the brother ; “ in what dangerous scheme is it 
that you have entangled him ? — Is it not enough that you and I must be 
consigned to a life of misery, but must our gentle friend be also joined in 
our wretchedness V* 

“ What misery ? What wretchedness ? Not for worlds would I have 
brought either the one or the other on poor Wahrend. Alas, too much 
already has he suffered through my foolish plotting! — Heaven send me 
power to reward his patience! But this was of his own proposing. He 
found my heart bleeding with the wounds that De Mara had inflicted on it. 
He drew from me the history of my wo ; and it v/as he who offered to speak 
to this misdoer.” 

“If this be so,” exclaimed Albert, “then have you signed the death- ,' 
warrant of one or other. W ahrend and the Frenchman will never separate 
while both survive.” 

“ Brother, brother !” shrieked Madeline ; “ your senses are astray. W ah- 
rend promised only to speak to De Mara.” 

“ Ay, ay, ‘ speak’ was the word to you ; but fearful will be the organ 
through which he will address the count.” 

“ He promised only to speak,” murmured Madeline. 

“ Think you the brave man talks of such things as these to a woman ?> 
He might promise only to speak, but he meant far other in his heart. O 
God, 6 God, where is the curse that was entailed upon us by this hauohtv 
intriguer to have its end ?” 

“I will not believe it,” exclaimed the alarmed girl, while a thrilling 
tremor took possession of her frame. “ Wahrend is so gentle, that he has 
ever seemed as if he could not injure the meanest tiling that crawled. 
Whence, then, i3 he to muster the sanguinary purpose that you would put 
upon him ?” 

“You have described the brave man’s character. His heart, when at 
peace, is tender as the mother’s towards her babe ; but rouse it, and the lion 
is more safe to meet— to face the tiger in his lair the more prudent choice.” 

Madeline would have replied, but at that moment the servant entered 
the room, and presented her with a letter. It was from Wahrend, and its 
contents ran thus : — 

“ Dearest Madeline — By the time you receive this I shall have redeemed 
my pledge. It is a fearful one, but I repent me not that I have given it. 

I would not write, but that I feel that the fortune of the day may be against 
me, and that if I write not now, never again may my soul interchange 
thought with yours. But even as I pen these lines, I persuade myself that 
it is more for your sake than my own ; for if this day sees the end of my 
life, it may be matter of comfort to you to know that I shall die invoking 
blessings on your head, and thanking you from the bottom of my heart for 
the permission you have given me to make your cause my own. 

“ Yours in all faith and love, 

“Wahrend.” 


ORPHANS OF tJNWALDEN. 


195 


Madeline’s eye ran over these words with the rapidity of one who felt 
that ner whole destiny was involved in them. In a moment she interpret- 
ed the meaning. She shrieked — let fall the paper— and would herself have 
fallen^oo, but that her brother caught her in his arms. 

“ Albert,” cried she, with horror in her look, “ it is too true all that 
you have said is to come to pass — perhaps has come to pass ere this. Fly, 
my brother, fly ! Seek them out. Search the count’s lodgings 5 — search 
Wahrefid’s ; — search Geneva.” 

“But how am I to leave you in this state, my sister ?” demanded the 
alarmed youth. 

“ In what state ?” cried she, springing from his arms, and tottering for- 
ward: — “do you not see that I am calm and strong? Fly, I say, fly! 
Oh, gracious Heaven, be merciful on one that has suffered her share, and 
let not blood be the consummation of the horrors that have been gathering 
around her!” And then perceiving that Albert stilf lingered, as if irreso- 
lute to leave her in such a state — “Why go you not?” she exclaimed: 
i* why seek you not these murderers, who would kill themselves and me 
at one fell stroke. Tell Wahrend as he loves me — as he values my good 
wishes, or my favour, to desist from his horrible purpose. Tell De Mara 
— No ; wo is me, 1 have no power there ! But if you find them at the 
deadly struggle, stand between them, my brother, and prevent the fatal 
conflict” 

With these words she sank upon a chair in a state of utter exhaustion ; 
while Albert, hardly knowing which way to decide, yet fearful to delay his 
departure any longer, reluctantly quitted the house to seek those between 
whom he knew the contention would be hot and fierce. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

Set np. My sword shall answer thee ! Have at thy heart ! — 

Juba. Nay, then, beware thine own, proud, barbarous man ! 

Addison’s Cato. 

Dost thou imagine thou canst slide in blood, 

And not be tainted with a shameful fall?— O dd Play. 

Wahrend had well expressed the feelings of his mind in the short letter 
which he had addressed to Madeline. Her manner during their interview 
had been strange and unusual ; but still he imagined that he might fairly 
interpret her words into a returning affection towards him, and the unhesi- 
tating way in which she had accepted the offer of his services with respect 
to De Mara had greatly assisted in bringing him to that conclusion. How 
far she had previously been involved with that nobleman, the Swiss did 
not care to ask himself. There are some questions from which the mind 
shrinks unless absolutely forced upon its attention by another. Thus it 
was with Wahrend ; and as there was none other to insist on the consid- 
eration of the subject, he was happy to avoid it, as one little calculated to 
afford him satisfaction. But whatever might have been the favour she had 
formerly shown to De Mara, the Swiss had at least this reflection for his 
consolation— those days were gone by— the Frenchman’s reign was at an 
en d— and her heart, as lar as his simplicity would allow him to judge, had 
returned to that train of thought which had been so gracious and delightful 
when together they had wandered through the soft glades and copses that 
surrounded Unwalden. 


196 


transfusion: or, the 


Yes, the reign of De Mara was at an end ; and Wahrend wa&not sorry, 
though the risk that it entailed on himself was great, that Madeline had 
sanctioned his visit to the nobleman, as it must necessarily be the means 
of undermining his power, and claim upon her feelings more irremediably 
than ever. He was to present himself to De Mara as the representative of 
Madeline. He was to demand the meaning of his conduct towards her. 
He was to prosecute that demand perhaps even to the shedding of blood. 
But however painful all this might be in one point of view, it afforded sa- 
tisfaction on another, for it must infallibly be the means of showing the 
count that his empire was at an end, while it gave himself a claim upon 
Madeline such as he had never before possessed. 

But, independently of the claim which he himself would derive from this 
proceeding, there was another feeling in his mind which received satisfac- 
tion from the destined separation between Madeline and De Mara, and of 
which he was to be the organ. It was true that the count had been his 
rival ; but W ahrend had sufficient honesty of heart to do justice to the 
Frenchman’s merits, notwithstanding the invidious position in which he 
had found him on his arrival at Geneva. What he had himself seen of 
him at the Plain Palais, and had since gathered about him in casual re- 
marks from Madeline and her brother, had made him aware of the talent 
and address of the nobleman. At once he had confessed his superiority as 
a man of the world to himself. At once he had perceived that in the bat- 
tle-field of love he was likely to be overborne by so skilful and prepared an 
antagonist. Nay, so entirely had he done justice to the count’s power in 
this respect, that had even Madeline herself applied to him on the subject, 
he would have admitted to her the advantages which his rival had at his 
command. But though his manliness and candour were too great to per- 
mit him to decry any portion of the address and insinuating qualities of 
the Frenchman, this very admission served, on the other hand, to make his 
fear of him the greater— his aversion to him the more rooted and deter- 
mined. Hence, from his first knowledge of the count’s pretensions to the 
affections of Madeline, he had entertained towards him a jealous and un- 
disguised sentiment of dislike ; and hence, when Madeline so warmly 
worded her description of her quarrel with the nobleman, Wahrend had 
gladly embraced the opportunity that it afforded him of putting himself 
forward as her champion, and the avenger of her wrongs. 

It was with these reflections that his mind was filled, as he hastily pro- 
ceeded towards his lodgings, to avail himself of the hour which, according 
to the terms of his agreement with his mistress, was yet his own. W ah- 
rend was a brave man — a man brave in the best sort of bravery — coura- 
geous, without rashness — determined, without audacity. Such a man as 
this may be impelled to the feeling that he is called on to face another, 
sword to sword, and life for life. Such a man may forget common sense, 
and the wisdom that nature herself has condescended to plant in his bo- 
som ; but, at all events, he does not undertake the affair with the Hot- 
headed absurdity of one. of those weak heads who are but one degree re- 
moved from a ward in Bedlam, or with the vain-glorious mouthing of a 
fire-eater, who hopes to gain the applause of the lowest rabble, at the ex- 
pense of his character with the wiser, the better, and the more judicious 
portion ol mankind. It might be that Wahrend had some misgivings as 
to the course in which he was engaged ; but, even if so, he was too far 
involved to retract. His word had been passed on the subject, to her for 
whose smiles he lived, and whose frowns he feared more than death ; and, 
at the same time, the step that he was about to take seemed calculated to 
furnish him with a means, justified by the practice of the world, of getting 
rid of the rivalry of De Mara for ever. These were the considerations 
that determined him to pursue the course which his interview that morn- 


ORPHANS OF UNWAI.DEN. 


197 

ing with Madeline had commenced, and ho therefore steadily prepared 
himself for the undertaking. For awhile he forced himself to forget her 
whose sake had brought him to this, that he might turn his attention to 
such things as were not. so immediately connected with her. But the in- 
terval was but short. When he thought of the disposition of his property, 
it was she who seemed to him to claim its possession; for he was that 
day, perhaps, going to present her with his life ; and what could he better 
do with that which his parents had bestowed on him with that life, than 
unite it to his more precious gift ? not in the hope of enhancing it, but in 
proof of how entirely and altogether her image had commanded him in his 
doings that day. When he thought of the times that might be if things 
went well, it was still Madeline that came upon his mind, as the one 
essential ingredient that was necessary to the filling of his cup of bliss, 
and without whom riches, wealth, and honours were no better than a 
miserable drop, fit only to be discarded. Thus, then, the image of his 
mistress was speedily returned to his recollection, whichever way he 
directed his thoughts ; and the perpetual consideration of how he might 
best add to her happiness and enjoyment was the genuine test of the reali- 
ty of his love, •when compared to the selfish and wily affectation of the 
passion, as evinced by him whom he was about to seek. 

It was in furtherance of this consideration, that the idea first entered his 
mind of the propriety of his writing to Madeline, ere he quitted his lodgings 
lor his encounter with the nobleman. He felt the peril in which he was 
about to be involved, and his own heart was able to instruct him how he 
should feel, were another placed in his situation, and he in that of Made- 
line. Those same feelings, he imagined, would be extant in the bosom of 
his mistress ; and as the affection of his heart had induced him to bestow’ 
on her those means of worldly comforts which were within his gift, still 
more did the same sentiment call upon him to provide her, to the full extent 
of his power, with that peace of mind without which mountains of wealth 
would be unenjoyable. Their interview of the morning had, on her side, 
been marked throughout by a rapidity and perturbation of manner, which, 
though it had not let him into the whole depth of her state of mind, had at 
least made him aware that she was labouring under considerable excitement 
of feeling. It was not to be expected that that excitement w’ould endure ; 
and he therefore felt bound to provide, to the utmost of his scope, against 
any of her own self-reproaches that might arise, should the events of the 
day be of a natnre to awaken any such within her bosom. 

The writing and despatching of those few lines, which w’e have already 
had the opportunity of reading, w r ere the last act to detain him from going 
in search of his rival ; and, having Seen his messenger depart with the mis- 
sive, he himself proceeded towards the hotel of the count. 

On his arrival at De Mara’s abode, the first person with whom he met 
was the punctilious Monsieur Jacotot, who, as he had not received any or- 
ders to deny his master, had admitted his being at home, and was preparing 
to make himself acquainted with the visiter’s name, for the purpose of car- 
rying it to the count, when Urfort descended into the hall where they were 
standing. One glance was sufficient to remind him who Wahrend was; 
and knowing how the count’s business stood with the orphan, he could not 
help surmising that this unexpected visit portended some change in the as- 
pect of affairs, for which neither he nor De Mara was prepared. The quiet 
demeanor of the Swiss was not very much calculated to induce the idea 
that he had come on any openly hostile errand : but, at all events, his hav- 
ing found his way to the count’s hotel must have some intention for its 
prompter ; and, even if it were only for the purpose of seeing w hat prepara- 
tions for travel were going on, it w’ould be necessary to meet his approach 
with due caution. 

1 * 


193 


TRANSFUSION : OR, THE 


With these reflections hurrying through his mind, Urfort immediately 
obtruded himself into the company of Wahrend and Jacotot, and inter- 
rupted the question of the latter, who was about to demand the name of the 
stranger, by observing, “Monsieur Jacotot, you are wanted up-stairs im- 
mediately.” a 

The old French lacquey, who had been watching the progress of Urfort 
with the count for the last few days with a jealous eye, replied somewhat 
surlily I do not know what you mean by being wanted up-stairs. 
There is but one person in this house who has a right to command me. It 
you mean that the Count de Mara wants me, please to be more explicit.” 

Urfort, who by his mode of addressing the veteran, had hoped to avoid 
the announcement that De Mara was in the house, bit his lips at the ob- 
servation ; but, perceiving that the mischief was done, and determined to 
get rid of the lacquey, he replied, “ I do mean what you have so elegantly 
expressed. The Count De Mara requires your presence in his own room.” 

Jacotot made a stiff bow of recognition, as expressive of his willingness 
to obey the summons of his master, and then marched up-stairs with a pro- 
found gravity, that was intended to chill this new intruder upon the count’s 
livery into something like awe and respect. 

Urfort, when he perceived that the old man was fairly out of hearing, 
moved nearer to- the Swiss, and said, “I believe you were asking for my 
master. I am sorry to say that he is most particularly engaged at present.” 

“ Be so good as to tell him,” replied the other, “ that M. Wahrend desires 
to have an opportunity of speaking with him. I think, when he hears my 
name, that he will waive present business for the purpose of seeing me.” 

“I am sure I beg your pardon,” said Urfort ; “ but the count i3 just on 
the point of setting out for a long journey, and his orders to me were so 
peremptory, that I hardly know how to venture to carry even your name to 
him. Is it not possible that a letter would serve your purpose?” 

“ I beg,” said Wahrend, somewhat angrily, “ that you will act as I have 
directed you. I will be answerable to your master for any blame he may 
attach to you.” 

Urfort would still have attempted to prevent the interview between 
Wahrend and the count; but at that moment De Mara himself descended 
into the hall where he was holding the Swiss in parley. W ahrend met him 
as he reached the foot of the stairs with the observation — “ I am sorry, my 
lord, to learn from your servant that your business is so pressing, more 
especially as that upon which I come will require your immediate atten- 
tion.” w 

The count, who had descended for the purpose of inquiring the reason 
why Urfort had sent Jacotot to him unbidden, was now easily able to solve 
that which had previously been a riddle to him, and he replied to the speech 
of the Swiss — 

“You, of course, must be aware of the due importance of what you have 
to say, sir ; but I trust that I may be allowed to form an opinion of my own 
on the subject, without taking yours for granted.” 

“ Most assuredly; and if your lordship will lead the way to a private 
apartment, that opportunity shall be afforded you instantly.” 

De Mara (like Urfort before him) had a feeling that this visit of the Swiss 
might have well been dispensed with ; but as he had made his appearance 
while Urfort was endeavouring to get rid of the intruder, he saw no way of 
avoiding the interview which was proposed, and he therefore replied by in- 
troducing Wahrend to an apartment up-stairs, whither Urfort took care to 
follow them. 

When the rivals had taken their seats, there was a pause. 

“ May I entreat,” said the count, “ that we proceed to business ? I have 
several engagements this morning.” 


ORPHANS OF VNWALDEN 199 

Wahrend stiffly replied, “ I only wait till your lordship shall have dis- 
missed your servant to state the nature of my errand.” 

De Mara looked somewhat confused at having such an oversight pointed 
out to him by the Swiss : but the fact was that Urfort, though he wore 
his livery, was so little identified in his mind as a servant, that he had not 
thought of the light in which he would appear to the Swiss. A slight colour, 
therefore, suffused his cheek, as he turned to Urfort, and said, “ You may- 
wait below till I want you, but be sure not to be out of the way.” 

Urfort, as he withdrew, muttered to himself, “ Our Switzer, methinks, 
is mighty particular this morning as to his company. However, I know 
no law against listening at a key-hole, so I shall be bold to act this once 
on my own responsibility.” 

But Wahrend and the count watched the loiterer as he unwillingly with- 
drew from the room ; and as soon as the door was closed, the latter has- 
tened to say, lest the Swiss should again allude to the irregularity of his 
allowing his servant to be present at their conference — “ Now, sir, we are 
alone ; and may I request to hear your explanation in brief.” 

“ My lord,” returned the other, with great seriousness, “I beg in the first 
place to assure you that the office I have undertakan is not of a nature to 
give pleasure to my mind : but the duty that is imposed upon me I feel to 
be so imperative, that though the hope of its leading to any thing satisfac- 
tory is beyond my expectations, I am not the less impressed with the neces- 
sity of carrying it into execution.” 

“ Perhaps, sir,” interrupted the count, “ it wonld be more advisable to 
inform me what this wonderful duty is, before you take the trouble to 
descant so eloquently on its mere abstract qualifications. At present it is 
mere words and darkness with me.” 

Wahrend bit his lip at the abruptness of the nobleman’s manner, but 
still continued his observations in the same undisturbed accent, as if deter- 
mined that nothing should anticipate the discharge of his task in the way 
which he prescribed to himself. “ Allow me to inform you in the first 
place,” said he, “ that I have this morning been with Mademoiselle 
Schvolen.” 

“ Sir, it requires great allowance for you to tell me that, for 1 can assure 
you I derive no satisfaction from hearing it.” 

« You will probably derive still less,” continued the Swiss, “ when I 
also inform you that l have heard from that lady’s own lips the painful 
manner in which you have played with her feelings, and taken advantage 
of the privilege of acquaintanceship with which she honoured you.” 

“ Sir, sir !” cried De Mara — “ but you have said enough on this subject. 
Will you now be pleased to explain the magnificent motive which may 
have induced you to present yourself at my hotel ?” 

“ My first motive is that you should hear what I have to say on this 
business ; my second, that we might mutually discuss the way in which 
reparation may best be made to the lacerated feelings of the lady.” 

« Indeed ! a mutual discussion with so eminent a defender of the sex 
will be highly edifying. It was a pity you insisted on my servant quitting 
the room, for all the world should be admitted to so instructive a discourse.” 

« Your lordship is welcome to take my remarks as you please. But of 
this, at all events, I am sure— that I must be heard out. When that is 
done will be the time for me to pass a comment on the pleasantries with 
which you seem disposed to intersperse this interview.” 

“ Sir, rely upon it,” said the count, hotly, “ you shall be heard out :--it 
would be a pity to check such amusing effusions. I beg that you will 
proceed.” 

“ The few observations I had to make are nearly concluded,” said the 
other : “ I have heard from Mademoiselle Schvolcn’s own lips that you 


200 


TRANSFUSION .* OR, THE 

have insulted her ; and my errand here, therefore, is to know what repara- 
tion you propose offering to her wounded feelings. I do not wish to push 
things to extremities, but it is impossible for me to have listened to the 
words that fell from her this morning, without feeling that 1 am called upon, 
by every manly and honourable sentiment, to require at your hands an 
apology for the unjustifiable manner in which you have wounded her mind, 
to an extent that I could not have believed, had I not witnessed it. It was 
because I witnessed this, that I held myself bound to have an interview 
with you on the subject ; and the only reason why 1 did not forerun that 
intention with a letter, was because I was at the same time given to under- 
stand that you were on the point of quitting Geneva.” 

There was a pause when Wahrend ceased to speak, ere De Mara ex- 
claimed, “ I presume that you have finished what you had to say ; and 
now permit me in my turn to ask by what right you have come hither to 
demand this apology, supposing (which 1 deny) that I have acted in the 
manner which you have been pleased so courteously to describe ?” 

“ I come by right of the interest which I feel in the happiness of Made- 
moiselle Schvolen.” 

“ And what if I am not willing to admit the right which you suppose 
that interest gives you ?” 

“ I think I could show you that in my case it does give such a right. 
But to avoid dispute on this point, let me also inform you that I have come 
hither at the lady’s own request.” 

“At Madeline’s request!” cried the count: “ by Heaven ! this is be- 
yond endurance ! Have not only my secrets been laid open, but am I to 
be put in leading-strings too ? — Oh ! this is well — mighty well ! But one 
thing further, sir, and l am satisfied— Did she authorize you to make use 
of the terms which you have employed !” 

“ With respect to the accusation against you I have but used her own 
words. But as to the demand I have made, of course I need not inform 
your lordship, that it is not customary to enter into particulars with a lady 
when we feel that we are called on to redress the wrongs that she has 
received.” 

“ You have said enough, sir,” exclaimed De Mara, vehemently ; “ you 
have said enough. And now let me tell you in return, that had Madeline 
herself come with you, I never would have acknowledged your right 
to demand an apology at my hands. What acquaintance you may have 
had with her formerly, I know not. But this I know — that since your re- 
appearance here, you have stood in my path like a dreamy incubus or some 
shadowy apparition. But at least I will take care not to give substance to 
your right to cross my steps. Sir, you are an intruder between me and my 
pursuits ; and I refuse to give you any explanation whatever with respect 
to Mademoiselle Schvolen.” 

“I was afraid that it would come to this,” replied the Swiss, quietly, 
“and I have accordingly prepared myself for the alternative. Count, wo 
do not wear swords, but we must show that w r e know how to use them.” 

“With all my heart ! Your proposal pleases me, for all the apology I 
can ever make must be at my sword’s point ; and it may chance that you 
at the same time will receive a hint of the folly of passing between me and 
my passions. But we must to business instantly. The Chevalier Altoz — ” 

“ I crave your pardon,” interrupted Wahrend : “ the pressing nature of 
the case, joined to the fear that I might find you already departed from 
Geneva, brought me here almost immediately on my quitting Mademoiselle 
Schvolen ; and I have, therefore, had no time to engage a friend to act on 
my behalf. Nor, indeed, do I know that I could obtain one in less than a 
day or two, for I have no acquaintances in Geneva, and should be obliged 
to ride over to my own neighbourhood for the purpose.” 


ORPHANS OF UNAVALDEN. 


201 

“ The matter requires no explanation,” cried De Mara, “ for I like it 
better as it is. I have weapons at hand, and with your permission the bu- 
siness shall be brought to an issue at once. My servant, if you do not 
object, shall alone be present; and, in order to prevent any mistakes, 
whatever orders I give him shall be made in your presence : or, if you 
would rather, you shall yourself give him the necessary directions.” 

“There is no occasion for that,” replied Wahrend ; “I have no doubt 
that your lordship will arrange every thing for the best.” 

Wahrend’s consent having thus been given to this plan, the count sum- 
moned Urfort to the apartment ; and, as he had been true to his resolution 
of taking up his post at the key-hole, it was not very long before he an- 
swered the summons. 

“Urfort,” said the count, when he entered the room, “this gentleman 
and I have some business to settle which will require your attendance. 
Take this key, and fetch the swords which you will find in the cupboard 
f which it unlocks ; but be sure that you breathe not a syllable of your 
errand to any one that you may meet; and throw my cloak over them, 
that it may not be seen bv the servants what it is you are carrying.” 

| Urfort gave a sort of half chuckle as he took the key, as if the errand 
had awakened comfortable fancies in his mind ; and he strode away in all 
haste to obey the count’s directions. 

n The short pause that ensued ere he returned was passed in solemn si- 
lence. The action that was to come had been agreed upon, and they were 
only waiting till the instruments should be furnished to commence the 
deadly conflict. Words seemed to be at an end between them, and here- 
after deeds were to speak their thoughts. Wahrend had expected that it 
would come to this, and he had steeled the humanity of his nature to suit 
the severity of the occasion. His disposition “ was gentle, but not fear- 
ful ;” and the effort on his side had been, not to find the courage neces- 
sary to the encounter, but to banish from his heart those really honourable 
feelings that whispered their repugnance to the forceful mode about to be 
adopted. Had a rightful demand been made, he would have been as ready 
as Marcus Curtius to leap the gulf that yawned destruction, or as Leonidas 
to throw himself on the pointed spears of an innumerous foe. But it was 
with the very first blush of this pending event that he was dissatisfied. A 
son of nature, freedom, and the mountains, he had learned better things, 
and it required a giant effort of his virtuous mind to doff the glorious ar- 
mour that truth had heretofore lent to it, and to establish in its place the 
gewgaw panoply that the world calls honour. Not so with De Mara. 
Ever the world’s creature in this, as well as in all other things, he was will- 
ing to subscribe to the world’s articles of faith. He was a gentleman, a 
nobleman, and a knight ; and any one of these was sufficient to require 
him to cut a throat according to the decorum prescribed. He had learned 
bravery by rote, as schoolboys learn Latin, and had found talent enough to 
be perfect in the part. He could poise his weapon, and give the lungp in 
full .with more skill than any with whom he had yet crossed foil or rapier. 
He was proud of the accomplishment. He knew that it gave him the 
mastery over ninety-nine out of every hundred of those to whom chance 
might oppose him, and he was a brave man accordingly. The thing came 
to him of course. He had had such affairs on his hands before; and 
though he had never yet been so absolutely fortunate as to kill his man, he 
had always come out of these encounters with amazing eclat. With 
these sentiments for his general groundwork, he also had his peculiar ones 
for the existing occasion. The words of Wahrend had penetrated deeper 
into his soul than would have been supposed by the manner in which he 
had received them when uttered. Madeline had made him her confidant. 
She had complained to him of the wrongs she had received. She had tolc| 


transfusion: or, the 


202 

him of the insult that had been offered to hen All this was bad enough ; 
but how tenfold worse remained behind, and was laid open to his know- 
ledge, when the Swiss affirmed that it was by Madeline he had been sent 
to demand this explanation ! — that it was she who had constituted him her 
champion ! — and that it was under her instruction that he had dared to 
come to his very abode to beard him for his conduct towards her. These 
were the thoughts that rankled in De Mara’s breast. These were the 
thoughts that stung him to fierce revenge ; and a thousand times almost in 
one minute did he swear to himself that Wahrend’s life should be the for- 
feit of the pang. 

Thus, though they stood in silence awaiting the return of Urfort, the 
soul of either was not inactive. But of how dreadful a nature was the 
vein of reflection that coursed its depths! Their thoughts were thoughts 
of blood, though they tried to belie them by the steadiness of their looks ; 
and they addressed their minds to the same slaughterous theme, which their 
nerved and rapid arms were in a short minute about to reduce to practice. 
The breath of the late kind-hearted Wahrend thickened as he lashed his 
imagination into fit service for the coming scene, while the wily count gave 
away cunning for ferocity — forgot his prided civilization — and, in spirit, 
howled to his own soul like a savage. Had their minds been pictured in 
their outward and observable forms, they might have been taken for two of 
the figures that blazed on Achilles’ shield:— 


“ One held a living foe, that freshly bled 
With new-made wounds ; another dragg’d a dead.” 

Urfort’s return was the signal for breaking the pause, and putting them 
again into action. He brought with him three well-tempered blades, 
which, when unsheathed, shone with smiling surface, as though in 
mockery of the bloody business on which they were so soon to be em- 
ployed. 

“ I believe,” said the count, as he took the weapons that were proffered 
by his attendant, “ that you will find them pretty exactly on a par. They 
are, however, at your service, to take which best fancies you.” 

Wahrend only bowed in reply as he laid his hand on the one which was 
nearest to him. 

“ And now, Urfort, remove those chairs and table into yon corner,” con- 
tinued the count ; “ and you are to observe that though it is necessary you 
should be present at what is about to take place, you are on no account to 
interfere in any way whatever, till called upon both by M. Wahrend and 
myself, unless one should be w’ounded and fall. You will take your sta- 
tion so as to see all that passes, but further than that you are to have no 
share in the proceeding.” 

“ Perhaps it is but reasonable,” remarked Wahrend, “ to ask your ser- 
vant whether he would rather decline having even that share in it. It would 
be pity to force mischief on the poor fellow against his will.” 

“ I am much obliged to your honour,” briskly replied Urfort, “ buf am 
well content with my office. It is long since I heard the clattering of 
swords, and it will do my heart good to see their quick motion flaring in 
the day-light.” 

The count gave his attendant a look that was intended to silence him ; 
but Urfort either did not or would not regard the token. “ The only 
thing,” continued he, “ that I am afraid of is, lest the terrible clatter of the 
steel should reach any of the sdiarp ears in the hotel, and so the sport 
should be spoiled. I should be ready to die were anyone to interrupt such 
noble pastime.” 

The count looked angry at the observation, as he remarked in reply — 


ORFHANS OF UNWALDEN. 20S 

“ The room is far removed from the frequented part of the house, and I 
think we run no such hazard.” 

“ But what if it should happen ?” persisted Urfort ; “the folks here are 
so plaguy strict that it would be made a syndic affair of in a twinkling. 
Now, though the crossing of swords is very pretty pastime, for my own 
part 1 rather incline, after all, to the fashion I learned in England— pistols 
and hair-triggers, with the end of a handkerchief in each gentleman’s 
hand. Pop ! — pop ! — It is over in a minute, and neither side can complain 
of delay in the business.” 

“ You are something too forward, sir, with your advice,” said the count ; 
“ but I trust M. Wahrend will make allowance for the riot-running of an 
English tongue.” 

While Wahrend was bowing in acknowledgment of the count’s obser- 
vation, Urfort doggedly repeated, “Isay ‘ pistols for ever !’ ” 

“For myself,” said DeMara, “I am well contented with swords: it is 
a weapon I have always been happy in handling. But if M. Wahrend 
should prefer the suggestion of our umpire (as I suppose we must call him) 

I am ready to accede.” 

“Not at all,” replied the Swiss; “one of the boasts of my family is 
that we are descended from WiHiam Tell ; and it would be shame indeed, 
if I were not willing to handle a weapon, which, next to his bow, that 
honoured patriot esteemed as his most potent friend.” 

“ Well,” said Urfort, “ if it must be swords, it must. And now, gentle- 
men, I believe you may proceed : the furniture is well out of the way.” 

“ What want you with that footstool ?” demanded the count. 

“ That I retain for my own elevation,” answered Urfort: “ by standing 
on it I shall be able to keep a more watchful eye on the event, and know 
better when to discharge my humble office.” 

Again a silence, dead and profound, ensued. The combatants for a 
moment resigned their weapons, that they might strip to a freer action of 
their muscles : — but this without a word : — 

“ They ended parle, and both addressed to fight.” 

It was but the work of a minute : — that elapsed, the twain with limbs firm- 
set, and all their corporeal powers braced to the feat, met face to face. 
They poised their tempered weapons high in air : with rapid moving foot 
they tried their standing ; with bright and judging eye they measured each 
the other’s length and motion. This in silence Then their rapiers met. 
It was the first” sound to break the stillness of the scene ; and humanity 
might have wept at the thought, that those jarring swords were sounding 
the 5 ruthless knell of a human life. 

While thus the antagonists, Urfort with cunning gaze took cognisance 
of the points displayed on either side. He watched their preparatory doings 
with the coolness of an automaton, and the judgment of a fen cm g- mas ter ; 
and it was not till the clash of the first meeting of their swords reached 
his ear, that he warmed upon the subject. 

The first onset was cool, and delivered on both sides with consummate 
judgment It almost appeared as if each was master of the intention of the 
other, before it was put in execution, and had prepared a countermove to 
resist the fatal purpose that winged each passage of the weapon. Had 
the stake for which these skilful handlers played been less deadly, it might 
have joyed the heart to note the expressive grace and design of each move- 
ment that ensued as the play grew hotter and more fierce. The French- 
man moved with lightness from position to position, and with each move- 
ment varied his general posture, till he should find that which would take 
his opponent unawares : he pressed forward— then warily retreated 
awaiting the looked-for opening, Wahrend, meanwhile, with eyes as 


204 


transfusion: or, the 


quick in speed as the arrow of his far-famed ancestor, changed as the other 
changed, and ever presented a cautious front to his opponent. His arm 
seemed firm and steady as an iron frame, while his wrist gave ever-varymg 
motion to his sword. The count had intended to play a deep and artful 
part, concealing the better portion of his skill, till he saw some irresistible 
opportunity, on which he might throw in a vigorous lunge, and at one 
thrust close the event of the day. But Wahrend’s admirable play soop told 
him that the thought was vain, and he found that he was too well matched 
to allow his keeping any of his method in reserve. 

Thus, for awhile, the battle went ; and Urfort, who had nothing to do 
with humanity, was excited even to laughter as the eager blades flashed 
and re-flashed before his watchful eyes. His position, which had at first 
been stationary, seemed too quiescent to suit the humour of his feelings. 
Gradually he was worked into action, in response to their more rapid 
movements, till the narrow footstool, on which he had placed himself, be- 
came too small a surface to contain him. He descended from his station : 
anon, he was there again. He shifted attitudes as they below him shifted. 
He clenched his iron fist, as though he himself were clutching the sword of 
death, and about to thrust it at some imaginary foe. On and on this went, 
till at length his excited feelings burst forth in involuntary exclamations — 
“By Heaven, a noble thrust!” he cried, as De Mara trailed the weapon 
of the Swiss from its bearing, and in quick recovery lunged his own for the 
heart. “ And as nobly parried toe !” he added, when Wahrend, with re- 
covery not less rapid than his foe’s, beat off the home-thrust, which had it 
reached its destination, would never have needed a fellow to finish the work 
begun. “ Glorious business, by St. Paul !” again exclaimed the umpire, 
as he watched the clashing weapons cross and recross in swift collision. — 
“It only wants some blood-letting to give prime honour to the matter. 

But a change was now perceivable in the current of the fight, which gave 
LIrfort other employment than that of passing comments on the action, and 
on which the crisis of the day depended. De Mara, who had put forth his 
best skill and power in assaulting his opponent, began to exhibit signs of 
the first freshness of his attack wearing away. Urfort perceived it • and 
the Swiss perceived it too. Hitherto the play of the latter had been com- 
paratively on the defensive ; but. he now saw his advantage, and he deter- 
mined that the opportunity should not be thrown away. With fire in his 
eye, and the fierce pressure of a giant’s strength in his motions, he chased 
De Mara from side to side, accompanying each move with desperate but 
well-regulated lunges. The count played his part in answer well. He 
parried the sword’s point each time it was presented to his bosom ; but 
found in this too much employment to be able to retaliate with equal vigour. 
Wahrend observed his condition, and, in proportion as the difficulty in- 
creased, parted with his defence, and added to his attack. The cause and 
the effect went hand in hand. The more the count was pressed, the more 
he found it obligatory upon him to attend only to the parrying of the thrusts, 
which Wahrend advanced with threefold fury. The vigour of the noble- 
man’s arm by degrees became too relaxed to repel the severity of the efforts 
which his antagonist was making, and he was forced to endeavour to sup- 
ply the deficiency by continually shifting his ground, and retreating before 
the assault. This, however, was but a temporary expedient, and Wahrend 
well knew how to turn it to his more certain advantage. The more De 
Mara retired, the more hotly he pressed upon him ; and at length, observing 
his opportunity, with one right-governed lunge he forced him into a corner 
of the room, where he had to fight against such odds, that another minute 
would have put him at the mercy of the Swiss. 

The strongest tide of human affairs has sometimes been turned in less 
than that space of time. Urfort, who had watched with intense anxiety 


ORPHANS OF DNWALDEN. 


205 


the scene that has just been described, saw in a moment the difficulv that 
would involve his patron if he were once entangled in the comer whither 
f it was evidently the Swiss’ object to force him. He had hoped and hoped 
I tuiit Dc Mara, aware of his danger, had still some cunning shift in reserve 
. by which at the last moment he proposed to disengage himself from the 
peril that threatened ; but hope was at an end when he saw his back fairly 
wedged into the angle of the room, with scarcely space enough for the 
half-play of his sword-arm. Hope is at an end from De Mara’s own exer- 
tions, and unless some other can help him, Wahrend is in the act of making 
the last fatal lunge that must beat his opponent’s weapon from its guard^ 
and lodge its own point deep in his bosom. His foot is placed ; — his arm 
is nerved ; — the thrust is making. But as he pressesto the rush, he stum- 
bles — reels. The count dashes forward from his imminent position ; and 
at the same moment drives his eager blade deep through the bosom of the 
Swiss — ay, to his very heart the weapon strains. 

Wahrend, who, as the count’s last lunge reached him, was recovering 
his balance, is again shaken from his centre. For a moment he strug- 
! gjes — then falls with heavy burthen to the ground on the very spot were 
I his foot first stumbled. \Vhat is it that pillows his sinking head ? — the 
umpire’s foot-stool ! — Urfort’s stage from which he had elected to see the 
I contest ! 

The eyes of the wounded Swiss, though death is making quick ravage 
of his vital spirit, glare upon Urfort and the count, and seem to ask, “ How 
came that stumbling-block in such a place?” They understand the appeal, 

| and the count’s face sickens in its hue as the disgraceful conjecture flits 
across his mind, while Uifort chuckles to a demoniac tune in answer to 
|| the heart-heaved groan of Wahrend. 

It is at this moment that the door opens, and Albert rushes in. A glance 
is enough — he sees where De Mara stands in fearful admiration of the deed 
! his hand has committed — he sees where Wahrend, the friend of his youth 
and happiest hours, lies bleeding away his life. 

“ Wahrend ! my Wahrend !” cries the orphan, as he hurries to his side, 
“ open your eyes, and know your faithful Albert.” 

The eyes of the Swiss were obedient to the summons. They opened, 
and their gaze was fixed on him who had spoken. For a moment they 
knew him not, for the thick film hung on their surface, and robbed them of 
their clarity; but, a moment after, and the dying man recognised the 
kindly stooping form that tendered him to the death. 

“ I3 it you, then, ray Albert?” murmured he ; “Heaven be my witness 
that this half-dead heart thanks you for this last and best of kindnesses.” 

, “ Oh, Wahrend — ” 

“Hush! — do not speak, for ’tis mine to take advantage of the single 
moment that remains. Your sister, Albert ! — your sister! — Have mercy 
upon her! Tell her this sad tale with tenderness. Tell her not that 
treachery has been rife with me. Tell her not that that which now sup- 
ports my head was falsely intruded on my action, and tripped me to my 
ruin. Tell her not these things ; but in their place, and above all other, 
tell her that T die with her image deeply and purely graven on my heart, 
and that each pursuit of this final day has been dedicated to her service. 
Tell her that with my last breath I confirm that which I said in writing an 
hour ago. Tell her that she has ever commanded my life — that it is for 
her dear sake I now yield myself — to death !” 

These were his words — his very last ; for even as they were uttered, his 
clay-dim eyes were lifted to heaven : a slight shudder spoke the end of 
mortality, and his noble spirit passed away. 

Albert listened a moment, as if in the expectation that there might ytX 
be another farewell to be pronounced ; and then, with the certainty of his 
52-2 


206 


TRANSFUSION : OR, THE 


friend’s death gnawing at his heart, he turned to the spot where De Mara 
and his associate were standing — frozen, as it seemed, with horror. 

“ Monsters !” cried he, with indignation high in his eyes, “ look upon 
your work of this day ! Look upon the noblest, kindest creature that ever 
graced humanity ! Look, look, and shudder ! But think not to escape 
in your wickedness. His voice impeached you, and mine shall make the 
city ring with your guilt. Tremble, foul blots, that wreak disgrace on the 
species to which you belong, for I will this instant denounce you to the 
law : this instant will I proclaim to speedy justice the detestable crime 
you have committed.” 

These words were uttered in a hurried accent, and on the deep feeling of 
the moment ; and as he concluded them, he rushed from the room. 

“Urfort! — Villain!” cried the count, the instant he was gone: “how 
came that footstool between me and my adversary ?” 

“Nay, how can 1 tell, my noble patron? But, doubtless, it must have 
been your good genius who conjured it there ; for without it, by my troth, 
your life was not worth a Birmingham shilling!” 

“Devil in disguise of man!” replied the count; “you were my evil 
genius that placed it there, and, by the act, more deeply wounded my 
honour than yon body was pierced by my sword. Oh, Wahrend! I was 
your enemy and deadly foe ; but, if ever there was faith in man, there is 
faith in me, when 1 declare, that ten thousand times rather would I have 
Rnelt — ay, knelt to your mercy — than be the instrument of so foul a con- 
struction as this.” 

Scarcely had the nobleman finished these words, when the loud roll of a 
drum burst upon the air ; and each peal, as it was executed, seemed to 
approach nearer and nearer to the hoi el. 

“ Hark !” cried Urfort ; “ it is the city guard ; and that young puler has 
put them on the alert. Fool that 1 was to let him go! but there is, and 
ever has been, something in the thoughts he conjures in my mind, that holds 
back my more prudent resolutions. Count, there is not a moment to lose. 
We must e’en fly for it.” 

“ I fly not,” replied De Mara, haughtily. 

“ Nay, nay, the thing is very pretty in theory, but it will never do in 
practice. A moment more, and we shall be on our way to the dungeons of 
Geneva.” 

“ Better that, than fly to be dishonoured.” 

“ My good lord, I swear, by all that is good and great, that the whole 
was purely accidental. Give me but the opportunity to explain it, and you 
shall be convinced. Besides, remember Madeline. I would pledge a 
thousand lives, if I had them, that she will love you all the better for this ; — 
that the very crisis is come when she will yield on any terms ; — and is this 
a moment to throw yourself into the arms of fellows with bayonets and 
mustachios, when the finest woman in the world is on the point of throw- 
ing herself into yours?” 

“ But how are we to meet ? I dare not venture to her.” 

“ I will undertake for every thing, if you will but act under my guidance. 
Hark ! the drum again ! Come, let us make our retreat by the back door, 
and make the best of our way to Kobolt’s. There, I warrant, we may lie 
snug enough, in spite of the sharp scent and piercing eyes of the searchers 
of Geneva.” 

De Mara, who had been roused to attention by the words which Urfort 
had so skilfully supplied about his mistress, and who was willing to hear 
any thing that could show that the fatal termination of his conflict with 
Wahrend had arisen from accident, and not from design, yielded to the 
directions of his guide ; and they were speedily tracking their way through 
obscure streets and winding lanes, with all of which Urfort appeared to be 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


207 


not a little familiar, towards the abode of Kobolt, where the latter did not 
doubt that they might lie safely concealed, in spite of the best exertions of 
tne police of the city to discover their retreat. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

My husband lives, that Tybalt would have slain ; 

And Tybalt’s dead, that would have kill’d my husband : 

And this is comfort : wherefore weep I then ? 

Some word there was, worser than Tybalt’s death, 

That murthcr’d me : I would ferget it, fain ; 

But, oh ! it presses to my memory, 

Like damned guilty deeds to sinners’ minds; 

Tybalt is dead, and Romeo — banished ! 

That banished, that one word — banished, 

Hath slain ten thousand Tybalts. — Romeo and Juliet. 

There can be no doubt that, when Albert quitted the presence of De 
Mara and Urfort, his firm intention was to act according to the words he 
had uttered ; and, had he waited long enough at the hotel to hear the roll 
of the city drum, it would have been the signal for his denouncing the 
destroyers of his friend. The rapidity of his pace, however, had far re- 
moved him from the vicinity of the street long before the drum was heard 
echoing along its line ; and he seemed, by the rate at which he passed, to 
be seeking relief from the dreary load of thought that was pressing upon 
r'J his imagination. 

His first thoughts still were dedicated to his friend. The wind, as it 
drove past him, seemed to sweep to his ear the murmurs of the dying man ; 
the last groan of the expiring Swiss was echoed back again and again to 
his morbid fancy; and “revenge upon my murderers” was whispered to 
! his disturbed senses, in the weil-known voice of Wahrend. 

But ere he had an opportunity of obeying the dictate, other thoughts 
’ presented themselves to his mind. Justice does not content itself with the 
parcel statement of one man, but demands a universal exposition of the first 
and the last event connected with that which demands its interference. 
How, then, could he tell of Wahrend’s fate without implicating his sister? 
How could he denounce the evil-doers that had worked his death, without 
declaring the share that Madeline had had in that very death ? In these 
questions there was dreadful agony ; and well might they palsy his deter- 
mination of seeking justice against the monsters who had awarded death 
to his devoted friend. 

But if he could have seen the condition of his sister whilst he was thus 
holding parley with himself, how much more agony would there have been 
iii the questions 1 He had left her in a state bordering upon insensibility, 
when in obedience to her entreaty he had gone to seek those between 
whom the conflict was raging. Happy would it have been for her had that 
oblivion of the senses continued, and had excluded from her seething brain 
the recollection of the things that had been, and the imagining of the things 
that might be ! But high destiny would not permit her to escape so easily. 
She awoke again to life, and with that awakening came all the conscious- 
ness of the thousand springs of misery that had overwhelmed her better 
reason, and made her the merest creature of impulse that was ever driven 
this way or that by the guests of passion. 

She awoke, and the first object that mei, her fevered gaze was Wahrend’s 


208 


TRANSFUSION .* OR, THE 


letter. That alone was sufficient to recall her in a moment to all that had 
gone before ; and she cried aloud for Albert. Each moment seemed an 
age — each thought an eternity ; and she knew not how to contain the 
eager, troublous, sickening panting of her soul to know all — the worst — 
the best — at one immediate grasp. 

On and on her passion-fed impulse led her, until every thing else was 
absorbed in the one consideration of the danger of De Mara. The con- 
sciousness of that danger restored his image to her heart in all its pristine 
tenderness ; his barbarity and neglect vanished before the idea that at that 
very moment perhaps his life’s thread was trembling beneath the shears of 
Atropos. That one sole thought embraced her every faculty. She forgot 
that it was by Wahrend he was threatened: she forgot that she had des- 
patched her brother to prevent or bring her earliest news of the result. She 
could only figure to her diseased imagination that there was some appalling, 
horrid peril besetting the chosen of her heart, and that the whole course of 
her destiny was involved in that conclusion. Why then did she pause ? 
Why was she there in inactivity, when so dreadful a deed was enacting ? 
“ Up, up, Madeline!” she shouted to herself; “rush to the thickest of 
the danger ; and if De Mara must die, show that you can die with him !” 

There was a sort of horrible gratification in the thought that these words 
inspired. It would at least take her from the agonizing condition of sus- 
pense in which she sat enthralled. It would put her again in motion. It 
would tempt her into action, and hurry her from the still horror that lent so 
ghastly a hue to the uncertainty that enshrouded her. There was some- 
thing like resistance in this new resolution that had seized her ; and re- 
sistance was more desirable than the present passive endurance which 
placed her at the mercy of the most afflictive sensations. 

Full of this feeling, she started up to seek the count. With nervous and 
unsteady step she descended to the street. The door was opened ; and 
with something which could hardly be called a purpose offering itself to 
her inconclusive mind, she passed the threshold, and was ready to launch 
herself, even in her present most deplorable condition, into a world little fit 
to understand the feelings that agitated her. 

But at this very moment Albert approached the house. He saw the 
action of his sister — guessed its intention — and hurried to her side. The 
sight of her brother recalled to her memory the errand on which he had 
been sped, and she gave him a look that asked a thousand questions at 
once. 

The only answer that Albert afforded her was to take her by the hand, 
and conduct her back to the apartment which she had just quitted ; she 
obeying his movement with the facility of a child in leading-strings. Her 
look still inquired : her attitude was still that of a person willing to listen 
to the minutest sound ; but she uttered no word — she asked no question. 

Albert too was silent, for he knew not how to address his sister on the 
subject of the scene he had just come from witnessing. No suspicion of 
the giving way of his sister's intellect had passed across his mind ; and he 
had, therefore, received all her observations as the pure and unsophisticated 
expressions of her feelings. And to what did those observations seem to 
tend ? She had expressed hatred for De Mara — she had expressed regard 
for Wahrend. She had dwelt no less on the goodness, the kindness^the 
warm-heartedness of the latter, than she had appeared to loathe the very 
name of the former. To a certain extent Albert had all his life been 
labouring under a mistake as to the nature of her feelings towards the 
Swiss. Before the consummate skill of Valdi had bestowed the sense of 
hearing on him, while yet at Unwalden, and with little knowledge of the 
world for his guide, he had not been competent to form a judgment on the 
character of the acquaintanceship between his sister and Wahrend. He 


ORPHANS OF UN WALDEN. 


209 


had seen them continually together ; he had observed that they sought 
each other’s society ; and the natural conclusion of his boyish mind was 
that Madeline had an affection and a kindness of regard towards her com- 
panion. But to whatever that had amounted, Albert had been fully sensi- 
ble that while De Mara’s sun was in the zenith, Wahrend’s star was under 
an eclipse. But it was in judging of the events that had taken place since 
the re-appearance of his friend that he had made his grand mistake. The 
count from that period had been in disgrace, while the Swiss on the other 
hand had been received with comparative favour. It was true that that 
favour had so far declined as to induce Wahrend to seek a final explana- 
tion with his mistress ; but equally true was it that on that very interview 
he had been received into sufficient confidence to be elected Madeline’s 
champion and the messenger of her indignation to the Frenchman. 

This was the train of argument that Albert had suggested to his riiind, 
when the circumstances of the day had compelled him to quit his more 
favourite themes of thought for the purpose of interfering in the situations, 
which Wahrend first, and subsequently Madeline, had laid before him : 
and the consequence of the conclusions to which he had come was a firm 
belief in his mind that Madeline's real affections were wrapped up in the 
Swiss, and that it was for his sake that she had displayed all that eagerness 
and anxiety to induce her brother to seek the parties, and avert the threat- 
ened mischief. Albert had the more readily adopted this suggestion, be- 
cause it was in accordance with his own feelings ; and when a picture pre- 
sents two points of view, we naturally adopt that which is most in har- 
mony with our creed and perceptions. 

With these sentiments strongly pressing on the imagination of the youth, 
the silence which he observed towards his sister on his return need be no 
matter of wonder. It was on Wahrend that she had bestowed her heart, 
it was to save him that she had called on her brother in the hour of peril ; 
and the only answer that he was now able to make to that call would 
come in confirmation of her worst fears — to the destruction of the last 
glimpse of hope that might yet be extant in her bosom. 

The expression of Albert’s features, however, told Madeline the feelings 
of his soul, for it spoke horror and dismay. His feelings had not yet re- 
covered from the shock they had experienced on first bursting into the room 
where his friend lay extended in the agonies of death ; and these feelings 
were painted in his countenance in fearful colours. It was this that made 
the sister preserve the silence that Albert seemed to have prescribed ; for 
she two well interpreted the meaning of his countenance not to imagine that 
the disclosure, which as yet lay beneath, would, when made clear and ex- 
press, break upon her alarmed senses with the awful terror of a thunderbolt. 
" But this could only endure for awhile. Madeline’s soul was made of 
impatience ; and she had ever been more sensitive to the infliction of sus- 
pense than of execution. “Brother,” at length cried she, “ tell the whole 
in a word. Your look informs that a dreadful fate has attended on the 
strife ? but, in the name of every holy thing, make not the present evil 
worse by adding the torture of delay which conjures to my mind things 
perchance more horrible than the reality itself.” 

“What am I to say, my sister ?” replied Albert.— “ What is the task 
you require at my hands ?” 

“A word, a single word !” vehemently exclaimed Madeline. “In one 
word tell me the fortune of the day.” 

Albert shook his head mournfully. “I dare not,” whispered he. 

“Dare not! Then let conviction do its worst; for not even phrenzy 
can conjure aught so dreadful as that which trembles on your lips for utter- 
ance, and unmans you ere you give it sound.” 

Another pause ensued — Albert afraid to speak, and the sister so 1m- 
2 * 


210 


transfusion: or, the 


mersed in the depth of her fears that for a minute she forgot the presence 
of her brother. But presently her eye was fixed upon him, and she ex- 
claimed — almost screamed— “I must be told all I must know it to the 
minutest incident ! for this is my act : I was its evil author, and already 
do 1 feel it imposing a withering and irrevocable curse upon my heart 
Speak out, thou messenger of blood! Tell me how he died ! — not why 
— for that, O God ! — O God ! — I know too well.” 

“ He died,” returned Albert, in a \oice almost choked with feeling — 
“ he died with your name last upon his lips, bequeathing kindness and 
blessings.” 

“ Then he is dead ! — But, no — I will not believe it ! Awhile ago, he 
was in health, for Urfort spoke not of illness ; — then where should death 
have found a passage to creep in ?” 

“ At the sword’s point of his ruthless foe. There entered death, full and 
at once, nor needed the customary show of sickness or disease to forerun 
his march.” 

“ Still my poor heart refuses to give credence. Why should he be dead, 
and leave me living ? He was noble, admirable, and gallant; and I but 
a worm of the world in the comparison. Yet I have heard that death ever 
delights to prey on the more exalted victim.” 

“ My sister — ” 

“ Call me not sister ! Let me be kin to none. I am a monster unutter- 
able, and the finger of scorn shall hunt me to my grave, and write the 
epitaph on my mouldering bones. Alas ! I thought that he had injured 
me ; and now f find ’twas I that injured him. I was the fell sorceress that 
plotted his most hateful destruction ; and he rewarded the sin with his dying 
blessing — ay, ay, a blessing, indeed, it will be. 1 will go sit by his corpse, 
that the gaping wound shall bleed afresh, and that my cruel heart may in- 
dulge in its wickedness to the last., and revel in perceiving how the noblest 
life the world could boast has been spent to gratify its miserable spleen.” 

Albert would again have spoken, though his mind was in that state of 
perturbation that he could hardly measure the words that would have de- 
parted from his lips, when the door opened, and a stranger entered. He 
walked up to the spot where the youth was standing, and said stiffly, but 
not uncivilly, “ 1 believe, sir, your name is Albert Schvolen?” 

He, who was thus questioned, almost mechanically replied, “ It is.” 

“You will excuse the nature of the errand on which l come,” continued 
the other; “but, as an officer of the city guard, it is my duty to require 
your immediate attendance before the syndics. I am just come from the 
Count de Mara’s hotel, and find that he has fled, leaving the corpse of the 
unfortunate M. Wahrend without ” 

What further the officer was about to say was interrupted by Madeline, 
who, with a hysteric scream, exclaimed — “ De Mara alive ! De Mara 
not dead ! — O, say those blessed words again ! Speak them once more, 
and save me from the fearful doubt that it was my own deceitful imagina- 
tion that coined the words, to cozen me with an empty nothing.” 

“I am sorry, madam,” returned the officer, “that it should be any wise 
gratifying to you to hear that the count De Mara has fled from the hands of 
justice, leaving his antagonist a corpse. The fact, however, is indisputable : 
I saw the latter with my own eyes, and the landlord of the hotel pledged 
himself to the former.” 

“ Then I am happy, indeed ! — and this man, who calls himself my brother, 
is foiled in his cruel attempt to persuade me that the count was killed.” 

“ I, Madeline !” cried Albert ; “I attempt to persuade you that the count 
was dead ! Alas ! I knew too well that poor Wahrend was the victim ; 
for I myself received his dying words.” 

“ I am glad to hear you say that, sir,” interrupted the officer ; “ for it will 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


211 


JJJe y ° U a m ° St USeful witness - 1 must double you to accompany 

“If,” replied Albert, « you will be so good as to wait one minute below, 
i while I speak a tew, words to my sister, I will then attend you to whatever 
1 1 place you may think necessary.” 

! . The officer bowed in reply to this request, and showed his acquiescence 
m it by quitting the apartment. 

“ My sister, what means this ?” demanded Albert, as soon as the stranger 
t had withdrawn. “ A minute before this man entered, you were, with me, 
£ deploring Wahrend’s unhappy death ; and now, because you hear that De 

I Mara has escaped, the whole tone of your voice has changed, and you bring 
an accusation against me, the foundation of which is beyond even the wit 
of man to discover.’ 1 

“Albert! — Albert !— add not dissimulation to the cruelty that you have 
already practised on your sister’s heart : your words told me that the count 
was dead, and that Wahrend lived.” 

“ W ould that I could have told you that ! W ould that the count had died a 
thousand deaths, so that the brave and generous W ahrend had been spared ! ” 
“ I understand you,” exclaimed Madeline ; “ you have failed in deceiving 
me, and now you go to denounce De Mara, who, in his own defence, slew 
the Swiss.” 

“ Slew the Swiss ! — and is that your only tribute to the man who has died 
in protecting you from the base affronts which De Mara heaped upon you ?” 

“I know of no affronts! The words you utter strike on some ancient 
chord too loose and ineffectual to vibrate to the appeal. What De Mara 
was is all forgotten. I only know him now— an injured man — plotted 
against— decoyed ; — and I the wicked instrument of all this fell design.” 

“ Madeline, Madeline !” cried the youth, “ what means this fearful change ? 
Do you not remember his cruel acting at the ball ? Do ycu not remember 
j his treacherous introduction of Mademoiselle Basault, to harass your soul to 
the very verge of ruin ? Do you not remember his neglect ? — his contumely ? 
Do you not remember your own commission to Wahrend ?” 

“Yes, yes,” exclaimed she with vehemence; “that I do remember! 
The rest has passed away and well-nigh left my memory a blank ; but that 
fell commission still has place within my soul ; wicked, wicked monster that 
I was to plot against so dear a life !” 

“A most dear life has, indeed, been plotted against— and to the most 
fatal consummation. Oh, Wahrend, Wahrend, let not thy fled spirit look 
this way, for if it has aught of mortality yet remaining, deeply -will it writhe 
to witness this bitter return for the dearest love that man ever bore to woman.” 

“ Wahrend !” cried the agitated girl ; “ what of him ? Ay, now I remem- 
ber ; — and here— here are tears.” 

“ Give them to his memory, for he has wept tears of blood for you.” 

“ 1 would ; but something goes across my half-forgetful brain, to which 
my tears seem still more consecrate. I will go seek De Mara, and he shall 
change my grief to joyous smiles.” 

“ That share of guilt,” cried Albert, “ is at least prevented. The mur- 
derer has fled — De Mara will be sought for in vain.” 

Madeline screamed aloud as her brother spoke these words. “ Now flow, 
tears! break, heart! burst, every sense of feeling and of passion!” she 
exclaimed ; “ for cause enough there is for all of you ! De Mara fled, and Ma- 
deline desolate! Let him, who can, add a new torture to that one doom of fate.” 
“ Of whom speak you these things?” 

“ Albert, let not another word pass your lips. ’Tis time to act; for too 
long have you dallied — too deeply have you wounded your sister’s heart 
with miserable delay. Heretofore, I have entreated — now I command 1” 
“ Sister ” 


212 


TRANSFUSION : OR, THE 


“ Silence ! 1 say ; for I will have nought but deeds — ay, by deeds have i 
suffered, and by deeds will I answer. You are my only companion ; — yo: 
have ever pretended to my best affections. Well! I will tell you how tc 
win them for an eternity. Go forth, and seek the runaway. Search the 
universal world, till you have found his retreat.” 

“ Should I do so,” said Albert, “ it would be to deliver him into the hands ; 
of justice.” 

“ Ay, to my justice,” interrupted Madeline, “ and you shall be the exe- 
cutioner. He must be found, Albert ; — he must be hunted to some corner, j 
where no escape is possible. And then — the change of souls ! — oh, shake ; 
not your head ; for even though you could shake rocks and firm-set moun- 1 
tains with like facility, my resolution you could not shake. No word, 1 say, \ 
no word! — I pray not — 1 entreat not — I petition not: — but I command, t 
See you that it be done. This night I give you for the search ; but to- 
morrow’s sun will set in dreadful blood, if my ordaining be not accomplished.” 

These strange mad words that spoke her palsied intellect were uttered 
with fearful vehemence ; and her couuntenance was in terrible accordance 
with the sentence they pronounced. Ere Albert could reply, she fled the I 
room, muttering as she went — “ To-morrow ! Remember to-morrow !” 

Albert’s was a dreadful situation. The sister, to whom his affections 
had heretofore been knitted as intimately as life to his own pulses, had 
threatened him with strange and undiscoverable designs that must bring in 
their train all that was most horrible and destroying. What was it that she 
intended ? — what dark and afflictive deed was it at which she had hinted, 
whereby to consummate to-morrow’s disappointment ? Her language was 
frightful — her manner terrible ; but still more frightful and terrible was the , | 
hidden mystery with which she had closed her last words. Had she but told j 
the scheme that fired her brain, his skill might have been taxed to provide 
an antidote. But what human knowledge could forerun an evil based in i 
obscurity ? — threatened, but not devolved ? Her command was upon him 
to seek De Mara ; that alone was the condition on which she consented to I 
forego her resolution. But how was he to find the delinquent nobleman ? — 
where was he to look for one, who, under Urfort’s guidance, vrould doubtless 
take such precautions that not even the keen-scented police of the city should 
be able to trace his steps ? It was hopeless — all hopeless and nugatory. 

But still something must be done to hinder Madeline’s determination, or 
at least to gain that knowledge of her intention which might enable him to 
counteract it. It was to this last thought that he more fondly clung, for’ 
even should he succeed in finding the Frenchman’s retreat, there would 
follow the dreadful task of employing his dear-pfized secret in such a way 
as to put it at the mercy of him who had earned, by this last act of the death 
of Wahrend, his most unchangeable abhorrence. Still was his cry — “ No, 
never will I employ the gift of Heaven on the basest of mankind !” The 
secret still was between him and Madeline. Still should it remain so. And 
at that moment of thought and resolution the idea with wild rapidity entered 
his mind, that at length he had found the much-desired means of possessing 
full knowledge of Madeline’s intentions. Her soul his, and his soul hers — 
and then indeed he might hope to counteract the fatal design that was ho- 
vering o’er her brain, waiting still more fatal execution — yes ! Transfusion 
of the Soul should pass between them. 

But she had given him but short shrift for consideration : — she might even 
in her present agitation make that shortness still shorter. There 'w as not 
a minute to be lost ; and that very instant would he seek her chamber, and 
proceed to the undertaking that was to obtain for him the full possession of 
her every thought and feeling. 

He had already reached the door with this resolution rife in his mind, 
when he was met on the threshold by the officer of the city guard. 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


213 

“ 1 am sorry, M. Schvolen,” said he, “ that it is out of my power to allow 
you lurther time. I am momentarily expected by the syndics, and it is as 
much as my office is worth to delay any longer.” 

“Only for a quarter of an hour,” cried Albert, anxiously— “ only for half 
a quarter of an hour.” 

“ It is impossible, young gentleman,” returned the officer : “ as long as 
it was m my power to oblige, 1 was desirous of doing so; but the latest 
moment has now arrived, and we must proceed to the hall of justice.” 

Albert would have again entreated, but he saw by the determined accent 
and manner of the man that remonstrance was in vain ; and therefore, 
without further remark, he accompanied his custos whither he led the way. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

Arib. We may talk of Heaven, 

May ga.ze with rapture on yon starry regions ; 

But who shall len 3 us wings to reach their height ? 

Impossible ! 

Seof. There is a way yet left, 

And only one. 

Arib. Ha ! speak ! 

Seof. Her sudden flight. 

Arib. Oh ! by what friendly means? Be swift to answer, 

Nor waste the precious minutes with delay. 

Rowe’s Royal Convert. 

The pace at which Urfort led his uneasy patron towards Kobolt’s dwell- 
ing, much resembled that at which the nobleman had last approached the 
same abode. But the feelings of the count on the present occasion were 
very different. Then, in spite of all the rebuffs he had recieved from his 
mistress, he still possessed that gaiety of spirit which was one of the grand 
characteristics of his disposition ; and the excitement of the new features 
of temper and habit which the stranger just rescued from the water dis- 
played, served to give an air of romance and singularity to the whole ad- 
venture. Now r , on the contrary, the whole aspect of affairs was sombre 
and heavy. His rival was slain— slain in a manner which even the count’s 
own odious rules of honour could not justify ; and he himself was a flyer 
from the peril of justice.' But however painful this view of the subject 
might be, De Mara was not a man to allow such sensations to hold too long 
dominion over him : and had not the past been backed by a question of 
what the future might yield, he would soon have got over those feelings 
which we saw displayed in his first angry words to Urfort, after Albert 
had departed from the apartment of slaughter. But that which was to 
come seemed to threaten an ominous interference with his passion for Ma- 
deline. The vigilance of the police of Geneva, though it had not been able 
to discover the murderer of Deboos, might be more successful in finding the 
spot whither he had retreated ; and the certain result of that w'ould be his 
being dragged from it like a criminal to answer for that which he had .in- 
deed, been a criminal. But even supposing he escaped the search of jus- 
tice, in what manner would Madeline look upon the events of that day ? 
He had no reason to doubt that Wahrend had spoken the truth, when he 
asserted that it was with the maiden’s own consent that he presented him- 
self as the champion of her offended cause ; and it therefore seemed more 
than probable that the feeling (whatever it might be) that had dictated that 


214 


transfusion: or, the 


course to her, would be infinitely heightened by the failure and death of 
him whom she had appointed as her defender. It was true that Urfort had 
treated this matter lightly, and had pledged himself that Madeline should 
disregard the fatal transaction of the day. But in what respect was Ur- 
fort’s judgment better than his ? — his, which seemed to be supported by 
nature and common sense, both of which appeared to insist on Madeline’s 
deepest resentment of the painful termination of the conflict which had 
taken place ? But had he ground for believing that Urfort had really given 
his sincere opinion? — This was a question which had once or twice flitted 
across his mind during the short period that he had been availing himself 
of this man’s services; and now that there appeared to be nothing but 
mischief emanating from his councils, it came with tenfold force on De 
Mara’s recollection, and the result was to awaken a strong suspicion that 
for some reason which he could not divine, (unless it was merely that of 
securing the promised hundred louis,) the adventurer, whom he had taken 
into his pay, was leading him on with vain expectations which he himself 
never hoped to realize. 

These were the thoughts that worked their way into the Frenchman’s 
imagination, as he accompanied Urfort in silence through various back 
ways and obscure windings to the hostel of Kobolt. As they approached, 
the day began to close upon them ; the clouds came up heavy and thick 
from the southern horizon, and the gathering mists speedily changed into a 
fast drizzling rain, that drew an air of discomfort and darkness over the 
face of nature, and was little calculated to improve the feelings which had 
taken possession of De Mara. 

At length they arrived at the well-known porch ; and, as the night-hour 
was but early, obtained more easy ingress than when last they visited the 
house in company. Kobolt executed one of his best smiles and most hos- 
pitable bows when he perceived the entry of the nobleman ; but the latter 
seemed to be in no humour to indulge the open disposition of his host, for 
he passed on without any notice of the salutation that was so courteously 
proffered. 

Kobolt, however, was not to be so easily rebuffed. “ I am afraid,” cried 
he, “ that it is destined you are always to come here with a wet jacket ; but 
1 believe I can this time supply your honour with a more suitable change of 
raiment.” 

“ I need none,” replied the count, testily ; “ a corner by your kitchen-fire 
will soon remedy the damp I feel from the rain.” 

“Now, that is unlucky,” cried Kobolt ; “but it is ever the case on a 
Friday. I have two or three louts in the kitchen over a sheep bargain, and 
a bottle of the thinnest; and I fear your honour will not like to mix with 
such clodpoles.” 

“No, no,” hastily returned De Mara, “ I would not be seen by any one, 
for I am in no humour for society just now.” 

“ Had not your honour better step up-stairs and change you apparel, 
while my wife in the mean time shall light a fire in another room ?” 

“ Let the latter be done as soon as possible,” replied the count ; “ and I 
will in the interim be content to walk your corridor.” 

“ Kobolt on this called his wife, and gave her the necessary instructions. 
He himself, however, did not seem in any humour to quit his guests, pro- 
bably thinking it but civil to warm them with his conversation, till the 
crackling wood gave token of a more genial heat. After showing the 
twain up-stairs to the corridor, and watching them pace its antiquated floor 
for some minutes in utter silence, as if deeply revolving on the foregone or 
the future, he seemed to think that it was necessary for him to start some 
subject for conversation ; and he therefore said to Urfort, with whom he 
possibly thought it safer to make the opening than with the more distant 


ORPHANS OF UNYVALDEN. 


215 


stranger— “ Why, how now, old friend of my black corks, is it possible 
that the weather has so chilled you that you cannot find words for a <ros- 
sip ? For my part, I thought you Yvere proof against wind and rain, and 
that nothing could stop your tongue.” 

“ The wise man, Master Kobolt,” returned Urfort, “ knows hoYv to talk 
n season.” 

“ But yours,” replied the host, “ I always reckoned to be a tongue for 
all seasons.” 3 

“ And yet you have seen me silent enough.” 

I “Never but once, on my fay ! and that was when that strange, tall, 
I hectoring-looking woman came here to seek you. Egad ! when she found 
f. you, you seemed in no great humour to talk to her. By-the-by, Urfort, 
j what has become of that respectable lady ? was it she that ” 

“ I remember nothing about her,” interrupted the other, doggedly ; 

| “ and it would be as well, Master Kobolt, if you would take the hint from 
r, your guests, and wait till they speak to you before you speak to them.” 

“Well, well, man, never be hurt; if I had known that the lady had 
« been a sore subject with you, I would never have mentioned her; though 
as to forgetting her, that is out of the question ; for never, before or since, 
| have I looked upon one of so striking an aspect or so commanding a figure. 
1 Why, she seemed to twirl even you round her thumb ; and when she told 
j you that you were to go to that madame — madame — what w as her name ? 

— and send her on a wild goose errand, the devil knows where, you seem- 
| ed ” 

“For God’s sake,” cried Urfort, eagerly, “do cease this trash ! You 
:) are disturbing his honour, and you are disturbing me : the best thing you 
| can do is to go and see if the fire be lighted, for I am sure this place is 
I enough to chill the ardour of the hottest lover that ever cried peccavi in 
July.” 

Kobolt seemed inclined to say something further, but Urfort almost 
pushed him from the corridor, as he repeated, “ Come, do go, and hurry 
; the good dame. She must have gone to sleep in the chimney-corner in- 
ij stead of making a blaze there.” 

“ What Yvas that fellow talking about ?” said De Mara, as soon as 
! Kobolt was gone. “I scarcely listened to Yvhat he said, and yet there was 
I something about a female whose description would almost have made me 
I sw r ear that I knew to whom he alluded.” 

“ Nay, I hardly know myself whom he was talking about,” replied Ur- 
j fort ; “ your knowing landlords think they must always find something to 
say ; and the consequence is that half they speak must be invention. But 
f come, my lord, shall Yve descend ? I think we shall find the room ready 
, by this time.” 

* When they reached the apartment they found that Kobolt’s wife had 
not deserved the reproach which Urfort had insinuated against her, for 
there was already a fire blazing in the chimney, and the room appeared a 
paradise when compared with the chilly and darksome" corridor which they 
nad just quitted. . 

For awhile they remained silent. But the count’s agent, with his ac- 
customed shrewdness, in part read what Yvas going on in his employer’s 
mind, and he felt that he could not do better than break in upon the train 
of thinking that was being pursued there, before it obtained that determined 
character which disinclines him who undergoes it to change it to a totally 
different bearing. 

« Is it not high time,” cried he, by Yvay of introducing the conversation 
which he thought best calculated to serve his interest— “Is it not high 
time to think of the steps that shall be taken as to Madeline ? She should 
not be left too long to herself.” 


216 


TRANSFUSION : OR, THE 


“ I have no vein for the subject,” replied the count, moodily ; “I hare 
no vein for any thing but to curse the hour when I was fool enough to drag 
you out of the water.” 

“ Nay, that is your affair, more than it is mine ; and therefore you have 
my leave to curse it as much as you please. But how long is this cere- 
mony of excommunication likely to last ?” 

“ As long as I have memory of the dishonour of which you made me 
this day the unfortunate instrument” 

“ Dishonour !” cried Urfort ; “ why, you ran him through as fairly and 
as neatly as Orlando Furioso himself could have done.” 

“Did you not see the man's dying eyes demand— ‘How came that 
footstool there V I ask the same ; for it has wounded my honour even 
more deeply than it wounded his body.” 

“ I thought we had done with that foolish subject. How can I tell how 
the footstool got there ? Perhaps it got there of itself ; perhaps my eager- 
ness to be in at the death (though, by-the-by, the death, just then, was 
likely to be on the wrong side) made me kick it with my foot ; and though 
a footstool will not roll like a snowball, yet a very energetic kick might 
have sent it even further than this one travelled.” 

4 “ Oh that it were possible that accident, and not intention ” 

“ I am sure of it. Why, you do not suppose that I would have done 
such a thing for the purpose ? I should have had too much respect for 
your feelings, though, to be sure, they were in danger of being hurt either 
way.” 

“ Urfort, Urfort, I like not your style. I can easily understand that you 
concern yourself but little as to the manner in which the Swiss was killed ; 
but I cannot be so callous as you. Life staked against life, I had a right 
to do my best.” 

“ And very well you did so,” interrupted the fellow ; “ but let us forget 
this ugly business, for things more desirable ask our observation. Made- 
line must be seen ; and, on one condition, I will undertake the peril.” 

“ Madeline must indeed be seen,” echoed De Mara, with a sigh, 
“ though 1 hardly hope any thing from it. But your condition ?” 

“ Simply this— that I may have the command of another noble regiment 
of black corks.” 

“ I do not understand you.” 

“ And yet it is plain enough,” cried Urfort ; “ Kobolt will not part with 
his troops, without certain Tittle shining counters in exchange. I have 
none to give him ; but your bond stands good to me for a hundred. If 
you will agree to forestall the date, and make the bond prompt payment, I 
will undertake to see the girl the first thing to-morrow morning.” 

“ By Heaven ! I guessed as much,” exclaimed the count, in an angry 
tone ; “ but I am not yet so blind as not to be able to see through your 
shallow proposition. You would secure the remainder of your pay ; and 
and then, away flies the bird ! No, no, sir ; it is not yet quite come to 
that. I have long suspected that my first hundred louis had been spent in 
vain ; but 1 shall be careful how I am twice a dupe.” 

“ And do you think that 1 am to run the risk of being handled by the 
police of Geneva, without such a trifle as this being conceded ?” 

“You may spare yourself your powers of oratorv. You know the 
terms of our agreement ; and, rely upon it, I will not yield a tittle of them. 
On the other hand, perform your part of the contract, and I will scrupu- 
lously perform mine.” 

“ I shall do no more,” cried Urfort, surlily, “ without touching the gold.” 

“ Fellow,” replied the count, “ would to Heaven you had pronounced 
as much yesterday ! then, at least, I should have been free from this dread- 
ful stain upon my conscience. Now, I feel like a guilty thing. 1 am 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


217 


afraid to meet the eye of man : 1 start at each noise, and am ready to con- 
jure every form, every shape, every shadow, into the thing I dread.” 

At this moment Kobolt entered the apartment, and announced that there 
was a person inquiring for Urfort and his companion. 

“ So much for your boasted retreat,” cried De Mara ; “ already are we 
traced hither ; and in another moment I shall be on my way to Geneva 
like a felon.” 

His fears, however, were relieved by the person who was making the 
inquiry entering the room. It was Altoz, who, having heard from the land- 
lord of the count’s hotel what had taken place, together with the informa- 
tion that his friend and Urfort had departed together, immediately conjec- 
tured that the place of their retreat would, in the first instance, be Kobolt’s 
retired dwelling ; and he had accordingly followed them thither with all 
speed. 

“ My friend,” cried the count, the moment he recognised him, “ this is 
kind indeed. I have had dreadful thoughts since I parted with you this 
morning ; and the worst was, that the time was come when I was about to 
be deserted by all those whom my heart held dear.” 

“ Then, my dear count,” returned the chevalier, “ you must have been 
thinking of yourself, not me. Your silly pursuit of this girl made you 
desert us; but we never deserted you even in those days of neglect. 
W hy, then, should you think that now, when you have begun again to 
show yourself a man, your friends were likely to forsake you?” 

“ Altoz, Altoz, know you what has taken place?” 

“To be sure I do. 1 went in search of you to your hotel, when Granski, 
told me all that had happened. While I was there the police came in, so 
that 1 was not a little pleased to learn that you had made a safe retreat ; 
and as I was told who your companion was, I easily guessed where you 
had taken up your quarters.” 

“ But you heard not how he fell ?” 

“ 1 could not well hear that, for, as I understood, no third person was 
present but Urfort. Tush, man! never look so sad : it was certainly a 
little awkward that no one but your own servant was present ; but the 
thing will blow over after a three day’s bustle, and the character of De 
Mara will stand even higher than before.” 

“ Think you so ?” cried the count, anxiously. 

« it cannot be otherwise. Besides, what matters it what the puritans of 
Geneva may think about the affair? You never intended making that, 
place your home, and the gayer world of Paris will give you credit for the 

adventure.” , „ _ ,, 

« That is exactly what I have been endeavouring to force upon my noble 
patron,” cried Urfort, “ and I am glad to be so ably backed. Why, after 
all nothin** has happened but the pure fortune of war. Once or twice I 
thought it would be the count who would have to lie still, and M. Wahvend 
to fly^ Well, then, it changed again, and at length a lucky lunge settled 
the affair Were my patron’s chance mine, I should think myself well out 
of the scrape, for the Swiss had a gallant thrust, and lunged with as short 
an interval as it was ever my fortune to witness.” 

« x am glad to hear you bear testimony to the Switzer’s skill and the 
continuance of the combat,” exclaimed the chevalier, “ for both those points 
will wei<*h much in favour of the count, should he be unfortunate enough 
to fall wTthin the clutch of the busy meddlers of this city. But at present, 
thank Heaven, he is snuglv hid in a corner where no one would dream oi 
searching for him. So, come, De Mara, throw this melancholy to the 
dogs : let us discuss matters over a bottle of the best, and drown reflection 
in the depth of our beakers.” c . 

The count, though he longed to tell his friend the whole of the particu- 

52—3 


TRANSFUSION : OR, THE 


2f8 

lar 3 of the conflict, whence arose his uneasiness, could not nerve himself 
to the task : besides which, he was still trying to hope that, in spite of 
Urfort’s sneering manner, the false step of Wahrend had really originated 
in an accident; and he was, therefore, unwilling to lay too great a stress 
upon the circumstance that had so unceasingly harrassed his mind since 
the death of the Swiss. 

“ Your proposal,” cried Urfort, “ is just to my taste, and I have no doubt 
that ere long we shall bring his lordship to the same way of thinking. 
Besides, I have a word or two to say about the little mischief-maker that 
has made all this confusion ; and 1 calculate that the wisest counsellor we 
can call to our aid is a batch of Kobolt’s black corks. Under permission, I 
will make bold to order them into the presence and with these words, 
he went forth to seek his host. 

“ Altoz,” said De Mara, as soon as he was gone, “ I like not that fellow : 
nay, I am almost becoming superstitious about him, and think that I have 
met my evil genius in him. He must be got rid of.” 

“ I never supposed,” cried the other, “ that you proposed keeping him 
beyond your present need. If he has served that, in the devil’s name let 
him go.” 

“He has served no good purpose for me; and what I fear is, that the 
longer I retain him, the more misehief he will effect.” 

“ Is it really the Count de Mara that talks thus ? I should have thought 
that of all men you would have had too much confidence in your own skill 
and penetration, to fear that one of your tools should transgress the boundary 
which you have prescribed him.” 

“ I thought so once myself.” 

“ And will again to-morrow. Come, come, you are somewhat agitated 
by the adventures of to-day,” 

“ But this Urfort hangs over me like a frightful dream.” 

“ Awake from your sleep then, and his power is at an end. You have 
often favoured me with your advice, now take mine. Press forward the 
object for which you retained him, and then discharge him with his pro- 
mised fee, and so close all further connexion with him. — But, hush — he 
comes 1” 

“ I have ordered a batch of tire best,” said he of whom they had been 
talking, as he entered the room, “ and in token of my commission bring a 
handful by way of sample.” 

“Five bottles are a very tolerable handful, Master Urfort,” cried the 
chevalier : “ you must have a pretty notion of a batch if your handful is so 
bounteous.” 

“ You shall see that anon, when Kobolt conies with his load ; and in the 
mean time allow me to propose you a toast — ‘ Mademoiselle Sehvolen, and 
a speedy meeting between her and the count.’ ” 

“ Ay, ay,” cried De Mara, “ the thing sounds well enough as a toast; 
but how is the fact to be accomplished ?” 

“ That was just what I was going to explain to you, when we had that 
slight difference about the hundred louis. I trust you are not inexorable.” 

“ Indeed I am !” answered the nobleman, gravely : “ I have had but little 
return, as yet, for my first hundred.” 

But if my patron would but condescend to reflect how near he is to gain- 
ing all his wishes. Within two days Madeline shall be yours.” 

“ If that be true,” replied the count, “ I see not why you should be un- 
willing to wait so short a time for the payment of our contract.” 

Urfort, with all his cool impudence, hesitated for a moment, as if he 
could not at once find a reply to so close a corollary upon his own propo- 
sition ; and, in the mean while, the chevalier took an opportunity of say- 
ing — “ Come, my fine fellow, I am glad to find that modesty has overtaken 


gg m 


ORPHANS OF UN WALDEN. 


219 


you at last; and, as I love to reward merit, I will pledge myself to add fifW 

P1G ‘‘ A h°a^in°P " t S h ,r?T dl r ed ’ pr 0 V i ded y° u do not exceed y t he two days/ 
A bargain, cried Urfort; and, in good truth, I think it would be but 
reasonable were the count to add a second fifty ; for the plan I have 
brewing in my brain is one of no little risk to myself.” P 

‘And to what does the risk amount?” 

«• No less than that of daring the penetration of the watch-dogs of Ge- 
counsei y ” Undertakln§ l ° ^ Madelme ’ and § ivin S her some wholesome 

“ But what benefit do you expect from such an interview ?” asked Altoz 
©imply , the benefit of inducing the lady to throw herself into the 
count s arms, Do you think I could not see, from Wahrend’s own account 
the business, what was the motive that had actuated her?” 

“ How know you what Wahrend’s own account of the business was ?»» 
demanded the count. 

“ Oh ! your lordship must excuse me, but I could not help thinking that 
there tvas no harm m listening at a key-hole.” 

Altoz gave the count, who was about to express his indignation, a look 
a3 much as to remind him of the advice he had given him when Urfort was 

absent from the room, and then interfered more openly by remarking 

‘‘ Pshaw ! what have we to do with the delicate expedients by which Ur- 
fort gains his intelligence ? For Heaven’s sake, man, go on with your 
scheme, or the time will slip by when it can be executed.” 

“ Not that either, chevalier,” returned the fellow; “for I -do not think 
we can do any thing till to-morrow.” 

“Ah, to-morrow again! That is alw’ays your cry,” said the count; 
“and I have ever found it a day at whieh you were never able to arise.” 

“ I never had such hopes before of immediate success,” answered Urfort. 
It is quite clear that things are now at a crisis ; for, though the Swiss 
was too simple to read her heart aright, I know enough of women to per- 
ceive that it was mere desperation at the thought of the count’s departure, 
that induced her to adopt any means that appeared likely to prevent that 
feared event.” , 

** But even supposing that was the case, the death of Wahrend must 
have changed her.” 

“ Not a jot ! It has confirmed her tvventy-strongl The girl was nearly 
mad at the thought of your quitting Geneva, and a feather might have 
guided her. But when she now finds that your encounter with the Swiss 
lias actually made you depart the city, the mere thought of meeting you 
elsewhere will be hailed by her like a vision from Heaven.” 

“ Would that I could be sure of that 1” cried De Mara ; “ but I fear that 
Albert will have been beforehand with us, and imbued her mind with such 
a series of suspicions that to move her from his side will be impossible.” 

“ Do not alarm yourself,” said Urfort ; “ Madeline is a true woman, and 
will have her will. What we have hitherto wanted is to find a motive suf- 
ficiently strong to induce her to quit Geneva. As good luck will have it, 
that is now ready-made to our hands ; and I Mill consent to sacrifice my 
hundred and fifty louis (will your lordship allow me to say — my tu'o 
hundred louis ?) if she be not on my first hint willing to pursue you 
to any place you may be pleased to name. The blood is up within her, 
and has stolen a march upon her reason. What the deuce, then, have 
we to do with logic and argument, when the principle by which she is ac- 
tuated is that which sets aside both the one and the other?” 

“ I think,” said Altoz, who had attentively been weighing all that had 
been said — “ I think that there is much justice in Urfort’s position ; — and 
the more, because it elucidates satisfactorily the motive that induced her to 
make Wahrend her confidant.” 


220 


transfusion: or, the 


De Mara shook his head, as he cried, “ Even allowing that that is true, 
it is not yet shown that the feeling is strong enough within her to resist the 
machinations that my arch-foe, her brother, will raise to clog my motions, 

I like not this scheme, and yet cannot propose aught else to take its place ; 
— for, how it is 1 know not, some foul and nameless thing seems to sit upon 
my brain, and to bear down each effort that I make to free myself from its 
painful influence.” 

“ Gently, gently !” exclaimed the chevalier. ‘‘'Now you talk of schemes, 
I think I have hit upon one that is certain of persuading her to quit Ge- 
neva.” 

“No scheme is wanting,” cried Urfort, testily, “but the assurance that 
it will lead her to the spot where the count is to be found.” 

“ Be not too obstinate, Master Urfort !” said Altoz ; “ my project is quite 
compatible with yours, and the two may go hand in hand.” 

“Come — the plan, the plan?” exclaimed De Mara, impatiently. 

“You remember,” continued his friend, in obedience to the call ; “you 
remember the motive that first induced her to quit Unwalden, and equally 
well you must remember the eagerness with which she embraced our offer 
at the road-side inn to conduct her to Madame Lalande.” 

“ It was that she might recover her lost uncle.” 

“ Exactly so. Now, it seems to me that 1 might, without any suspicion 
on her part, send her a note to-morrow morning, or any other time, to say, 
that having learned by chance that a letter to Madame Lalande was lying 
at the dead-letter office at Geneva, and as I knew that she was the nearest 
friend of the deceased lady, I had taken the liberty to procure it from the 
post-office, and enclose it to her.” 

“ But what is this enclosed letter to intimate ? For it is in that, I pre- 
sume, that the strength of your scheme lies.” 

“ Of course,” replied Altoz ; “ the inclosed letter must purport to be from 
Seaton, stating, that for particular reasons which should be explained 
hereafter, he had relented of his obduracy towards the orphans, and was 
desirous that they should meet him immediately at Unwalden, whither he 
had gone for that purpose.” 

“Avery fine plan,” cried Urfort, contemptuously, “if it were not for 
two or three fatal objections. In the first place, who is to undertake to 
write this letter in Seaton’s hand- writing ?” 

“ A disguised hand,” said the count, who seemed to have adopted the 
chevalier’s scheme at once ; “ a disguised hand may be mentioned among 
the things to be explained hereafter.” 

“And the post marks?” 

“ Oh, come ; I am glad,” said Altoz, “ that your objections are becoming 
so frivolous already, it will be strange, indeed, if a skilful hand cannot be 
found to imitate them.” 

“ And why is the girl to be sent to Unwalden ?” continued Urfort, dog- 
gedly ; “ of all places in the world I should have thought that the worst, 
for it is the only one where she is known and can find ready protection.” 

“ But, on the other hand,” said De Mara, “ it is the only one where it is 
natural for her uncle to send for her. His name, and that of Unwalden, 
are so associated in her mind, that the very name of the two together will 
prevent her inquiring too minutely into the other probabilities of the letter. 
My dear chevalier, I think your plan admirable.” 

“ And I,” said Urfort, “ think it abominable. It never will go hand in 
hand with mine.” 

“Why not?” cried Altoz. “ You purpose going to acquaint Madeline 
with the count’s departure : before you get there, my letter will have pre- 
pared her for a journey ; and all that will remain for you to do (supposing 
that you have judged her disposition rightly) will be to undertake that De 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


221 


Mara’s course shall lead him to Unwalden ; while, on the other hand, if 
she declines further interview with De Mara, we have in another way in- 
sured her journey to Unwalden, whither she maybe followed and secured.” 

“By my hopes of the maiden,” exclaimed De Mara, vehemently, “I 
never before gave my chevalier credit for half so much talent. We will no 
longer talk of master and scholar, but both be doctors together.” 

“ 1 am glad to meet with the approbation of so profound a genius,” said 
Altoz with a laugh ; “ and, now, have you any further commands for me ? 
If not, I will back to the city, and put my scribbling powers to the test in 
preparation of to-morrow’s missive.” 

“ A thousand thanks !” returned De Mara ; “ I have but one other com- 
mission, and that you can perform any time between this and our next 
interview. I fortunately availed myself of my letters of credit the day 
before yesterday to their full extent ; and you will find in my bed-room a 
red box studded with nails, which contains the gold 1 received. This must 
be secured, or I shall have no means of carrying on the project. I trust to 
your care to bring it with you to-morrow, in a chaise ready to convey me 
to Unwalden.” 

“ You may rely on me,” said Altoz, “ if if be possible to baffle the vigi- 
lance of the police.” 

“I was going to add, that you must get my pistols also; but it will be 
as well not to tempt their observation too much.” 

“You can have mine for the journey,” replied the chevalier. “I will 
bring them in the chaise along with the box, if it be possible to get it away 
from the hotel. If not, you may command such ready money as I have by 
me. And now — au revoir ! To-morrow, I trust, will see you in full action, 
and every thing in train for a successful denouement, with tire new’s that 
Madeline has the start of you on the road to Unwalden.” 


CHAPTER XXX. 

Damned paper ! 

Black as the ink that’s on thee : senseless bauble ! 

Art thoa a foedarie for this act, and look’s! 

So virgin-like without ? — Cymbei.ine. 

Urfort was not at all satisfied with the determination of the count to 
adopt the chevalier’s advice in opposition to his own, for he w r as one of 
those who never entertain the slightest doubt of the all-sufficiency ot their 
powers of judgment. He therefore withdrew from the council in no very 
good humour and had it not been for the hundred louis, with their pro- 
mised addition, which tickled him to the task, he w ould that very night have 
bidden farewell to Geneva and the count for ever. . 

“ So ” quoth he to himself, “ this after all is the value set on my judg- 
ment and knowledge of the world. The vain Frenchman, not content 
with having an opinion of his own, must even set the lame-witted con- 
jectures of his friend above me. By Bacchus, if it were not for the gold, 
without which I am a beggar, 1 would leave the pair to their precious ma- 
noeuvres, and, when they found out their folly, only indulge them with a 

laugh of contempt. Never did I read a character more clearly than that 
of this girl never was a woman more ripe for mischief:— and now the 

whole is to be baffled and set aside, because, forsooth, (his Altoz, in Ins 

dotage, must begin to invent as well as his betters. Would to Heaven I 
oould have persuaded the count to have advanced these hundicd louis. m 
3 * 


222 


TRANSFUSION : OR, THE 


good truth the chevalier should then have had the benefit of his fine scheme 
all to himself, and I would have marched without drum or fife. But cour- 
age, Master Urfort, courage ; and see whether you cannot conjure good 
out of evil. In the first plaee this ingenious letter-plan may be altogether 
forestalled, if you can but persuade yourself to rise early enough to be with 
the girl before the chevalier despatches his missive to her. Good ! — 
that will be good ! And pe^iaps you may be able to pick, up a reward for 
such rising betimes : if a certain red box, studded with nails, could come 
under your fingering for a minute or two, the trouble would be amply re- 
paid, and the count might take it as a receipt in full for his paltry hundred 
louis. Well, who knows ? Heaven may be bountiful, and an opportunity 
may come : — at all events, should it arrive, be it your care not to be sleep- 
ing the while.” 

It was in pursuance of these reflections that he was awake before day- 
light, and prepared to seek the maiden at the earliest moment that there 
appeared a likelihood of her being visible. 

But there was no necessity for his waiting for a seemly hour. To Made- 
line all hours were the same. It was her sudden re-action from sorrow at 
the supposed death of De Mara, to joy at her learning that he still lived, 
that made her so absolute with her brother in requiring his aid. But though 
this re-action changed the current of her feelings, it in nowise bettered the 
condition of her mind. On the contrary, it was another earthquake in- 
flicted on the ruin ; and the noble edifice of her soul, that so late was rife 
with beauty, excellence, and virtue, was fast crumbling to decay. Each 
change of circumstance, whether for good or evil, became more and more 
irresistible in its effect upon her imagination : her brain swayed beneath the 
slightest motion, and each moment seemed to threaten it with ultimate de- 
struction. The once-gallant ship floated on the troubled sea little more 
than a dismal wreck ; and it was expectation alone that still held it for 
awhile together: — the expectation of a good, which, even if it. came, would 
hardly restore her to her pristine vigour, was yet sufficient to hold her 
mind in trembling balance ; but the medicine which it afforded, like lauda- 
num to the body, only yielded a present and fleeting good at the expense 
of a future and certain evil. 

It was this expectation that made her wait with what to her seemed 
patience — the period she had allowed Albert for the consideration of her 
proposal. The hours elapsed, but he came not; and she resolved to seek 
him in his chamber. She went thither, but the place was desolate. Night’s 
dark shades filled the apartment, but no voice of Albert responded to her 
cry. She sat down upon a corner of the couch ; and she felt as if there 
was something in the thick darkness that enveloped her, that well suited 
the state of her feelings. De Mara had escaped the search of the police : 
but was it not possible that he had escaped her also ? This was a fearful 
thought — a thought which, if allowed to grow to perfection, would bring 
annihilation with it ; and with the small relics of strength which were still 
at her command, she endeavoured to resist its approach : she endeavoured 
to put in array against it the fact that De Mara was the victor in the field, 
and that his “ charmed life” remained untouched : she brought to her recollec- 
tion the service she had a right to expect at the hands of "Urfort: she tried 
to persuade herself that there might be some letter or missive from the 
count delaying on the road. The slenderness of her reason in this situa- 
tion might almost be called a mercy to her mind ; for though these conjec- 
tures in opposition to the damning thought of his having deserted her were 
not adequate to remove it, the frailness of her brain's texture mingled the 
whole together, and saved her from the utter terror of the latter by diluting 
it, as it were, with the comfortable suggestions of the former. 

Meanwhile the hours crept on, and she and darkness were still acquaint. 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


223 


She sought not sleep— -she remembered not sleep— sleep offered not to ap- 
proach her eyelids, and her brain had been too much shaken to court his 
addresses. Day broke upon her, and still found her sitting in Albert’s 
chamber on the very spot which she had first made her resting-place ; and 
it seemed as though her chief anxiety was the avoidance of aught that 
might disturb the quiescence of her condition. But though her state was 
outwardly quiescent, things were not at peace within ; they had only con- 
sented to a sort of armistice, and at the first attack from without they were 
again ready to start into action : the lack of slumber had also been at the 
work of mischief, for though her eyes ached not for the want of repose, her 
whole frame was exhaust, and gave way beneath the absence of that sweet 
refreshment, which at Nature's command revivifies the sensory of man, 
and. which would have been the most healing balm the maiden’s disturbed 
spirit could have received. It was in this condition that the good woman 
of the house found her. On passing Madeline's own chamber, she per- 
ceived that the door was open, and that its occupant was not there. The 
orphans had had the art instilled into their bosoms by nature (if such a con- 
tradiction in terms may be allowed) of making all w ho came across their 
path fall in love with their gentleness of manner and honesty of spirit. 
The old dame with whom they lived had in an especial degree imbibed the 
infection ; and therefore when she saw that the maiden was not in her 
apartment, and that the couch presented no signs of having been occupied 
during the night, she became alarmed, and, as the first resource, hurried to 
Albert’s chamber in the hope of resolving her fears. It was easy to per- 
ceive from Madeline’3 appearance that her usual habits had been infringed ; 
but at the same time her countenance w r ore an aspect well calculated to 
induce those who scanned it to forbear questioning the orphan on the sub- 
ject: in spite of the forced serenity that reigned there, a wfildness of the 
eye and a turbulence of feature were perceptible, which made those who 
gazed thereon shrink from the task of demanding w hy those characteristics 
of a fevered mind were so plainly and so painfully legible. The good 
dame, therefore, by w'hom in part these sensations were interpreted, con- 
tented herself with endeavouring to persuade the maiden to quit the gloomy 
chamber, where she seemed emvraped by misery as by a robe, for the pur- 
pose of seeking the more cheerful apartment where she had spent so many 
happy hours. Madeline had had enough of resistance, and felt too severely 
the pangs that it inflicted, to offer opposition to so unpretending a proposal, 
though, had she suffered her heart to speak, she might have exclaimed in 
the words of the man of Uz, “Wherefore is light given to one that is in 
misery ? Why is light given to one w'hose way is hid ?” 

But she resisted not She accepted the guidance of her who persuaded, 
and followed into the more cheerful apartment. But though she yielded 
- thus far to the good woman’s entreaties, it was in vain that the latter 
attempted to draw her into conversation. A simple “yes,” or “no,” was 
the utmost that she could obtain from the maiden, and often in reply to 
these endeavours, not even so much w^as afforded by her irreflective mind. 
She appeared to be involved in dark forebodings of her own ; and her com- 
panion, at length, in despair at the silence of her manner, withdrew with 
sorrow for the ineffectiveness of her efforts. 

On her descending from Madeline to the floor which was on a level with 
the street, she found the servant in busy altercation with a pedlar at the 
door, who, with the voluble pertinacity appertaining to his profession, w'ould 
receive no denial, but still persisted in being quite sure that there must be 
some one in the house who would be wanting some article that he could 
furnish. The servant, in great anger at his unwillingness to take a refusal, 
was just on the point of shutting the door in his face, when her mistress 
made her appearance ; and the man, gladly availing himself of the oppor- 


224 


TRANSFUSION .* OR, THE 


l unity that presented of another chance for the disposal of some of the con- 
tents of his pack, quickly pushed by the servant, and ran through a sort of 
catalogue raisonnde of his wares to the new-comer. 

“I have,” cried he, with a smirking nod, “every thing and nothing 
within this little pack ; — every thing for my customers, and nothing for 
those who do not choose to buy. But let me tell you this: only give me a 
chance of displaying my goods, and the non-buyers will disappear in a 
twinkling. I have laces more transparent than a new-made spider’s web ; 
fans that catch the breeze better than the shaking aspen ; true-love knots 
that can only end with the world ; and slippers made after the identical 
pattern of the one lost by Cinderella at the ball, when she was afraid of 
her godmother’s displeasure. Then I dabble a little in physic, too : I have 
powder of heart’ s-ease, for the sorrowful — laughing pills for the melancholy, 
and a clearing draught for the sad o’ conscience. Come, good lady, let me 
show you some of my wares; or is there no young damsel, whose eyes I 
could delight for half an hour, whose heart I could quicken, though the 
weight of Calvin’s monument was upon it?” 

The last words caught the attention of her who was listening to him. 
Her simple fancy was awakened to the idea that such babble and display 
of finery might effect that which she had in vain attempted, and that Made- 
line might be drawn from the theme that engaged her thoughts by the pro- 
mised exhibition. It was with this feeling that she cried, Come this way, 
my good man, and perhaps I can find you a customer for some of your 
wares, especially if you will undertake to describe all their good qualities 
as fully as you have begun.” 

The pedlar, nothing loth, obeyed the invitation, and, after a sarcastic 
hint to the servant never in future to be so sure that she knew the tastes of 
the whole household, was introduced by his conductor into the apartment 
where Madeline still remained seated, in the very attitude in which she 
had been left. 

“ Come, come, Mademoiselle Sehvolen,” cried the officious female, 
“ here is something to awaken you. I warrant the good man has beauties 
enough in his bale to make you forget your sorrow.” 

Madeline bestowed a sort of unconscious look on the speaker, and 
mournfully shook her head, without saying a word. 

“Come, Mr. Pedlar,” continued the old dame, “ untie your bundle, that we 
may see whether your goods deserve the fine names you have given them.” 

“ Confound these plaguy knots !” exclaimed the fellow, in reply ; “ this 
comes of letting others make up your pack. I shall not be able to undo 
them in a century. The string must be cut, and I have no knife. Perhaps 
you can lend me a pair of scissors.” 

“ Now, only to think of a pedlar without a knife! It is like a duck 
without water. But wait a minute, and I will fetch you what you want.” 
And with these words she went to fulfil her errand. 

“ Ma’m'selle,” exclaimed the man, hastily removing his wig and spec- 
tacles, which formed a considerable portion of his disguise, “do you not 
know me? Do you not know Urfort?” 

“ Urfort!” cried the maiden, with a shriek ; “ can it be ? Yes, I know 
the voice. But what means this dress ?” 

“ Surely you must have heard that I and my master are sought for by 
the city guard, in consequence of what took place yesterday ?” 

“ O Heavens ! yes ; 1 know it too well. But tell me—” 

“ The woman returns. Hush ! I must be the pedlar again till you can 
find means to get rid ol her.” 

“ Here, Mr. Pedlar,” said the female as she re-entered the room ; “ here 
are the scissors ; and now to work with them, for I long to see what your 
promises are good for.” 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


225 


“ Good dame,” hastily cried Madeline, who was afraid that the fictitious 
pedlar might have no wares to draw from his seeming pack, “ my brother 
has not yet returned from the summons which he last night received to 
attend the syndics. I know you love him well enough to share the uneasi- 
ness which I feel at his absence. Will you so far prove that love as to 
seek the reason why he is yet detained ?” 

“ Is it by command of the syndics that he has been prevented coming 
home ?” replied the woman. “ Alas ! I was afraid that he was again gone 
on one of his night’s rambles, which have broke my heart enough, though 
I cared not to say any thing about them.” 

“ But will you not seek him, now that I tell you where he is to be found ?” 

“ Ay, marry, that will I ; and this instant too, by my troth.” And with 
these words once again the dame left Madeline and the traitor together. 

“ Now, speak quick, good Urfort,” cried the maiden : — “ tell me how 
fares my lord, the count.” 

“ He fares as ill as a wounded heart can make him.” 

“ 111 ! said you he was ill? But where bides he ? O take me with you, 
that I may alleviate the sorrow that dwells within his breast.” 

“ That l may hardly venture on ; for it is at no small risk that I have 
come hither. And too well I know that the police have their eye on your 
motions to dare to take you back with me.” 

“ Gracious powers !” exclaimed Madeline, “ and is he then to be lost to 
me for ever ?” 

“ It is to prevent that that I have come thither,” cried the other : “ this 
very day the count quits his hiding-place, and proceeds on his journey.” 

“ Then where he goes, there will I follow. It is I that have brought 
him to this hasty flight ; it is I that have caused him to be hunted by thief- 
takers ; and the only reparation that I can offer is to soothe his anxiety, 
and tend his difficulties. Urfort, I will go with him though his journey 
take him to the very extremity of the globe.” 

“So much for Altoz and his doubts!” thought Urfort, as he listened to 
the eager words of his dupe ; and he immediately resolved to precipitate 
her departure from the city, so as to forestall, if possible, the arrival of the 
chevalier’s cunning missive, which was to perpetrate an object already 
accomplished. 

But even as he was about to urge the necessity of an immediate journey, 
the undesired communication of the chevalier was brought to Madeline by 
one of the servants of the house. 

** Is it De Mara’s writing?” cried the maiden, almost unconsciously, as 
she received the letter : — “ no, no ; for why should he write when his mes- 
senger has forerun all other expression of his sentiments?” — and with 
these words she was about to throw the packet aside, as something unwor- 
thy of her regard. 

“ Better and better,” thought Urfort ; but again his hopes were baffled 
by the servant observing — “ The lad who brought it, Ma’m’selle, said that 
it3 contents were of the last importance.” 

“ What can be important,” again vaguely exclaimed the orphan ; — 
“ what can be important that concerns not the count ?” he is one in all, 
and all in one to this poor heart.” And as she thus expressed the single- 
ness of her thoughts, the seal was carelessly broken, and she glanced at 
the signature of the chevalier. 

“ Altoz !” cried she, with agitation ; — “ hateful, hateful name ! Ill be- 
tide the letter he sends ! Mischief wait on the miserable creature who 
owns him for a correspondent ! I will have none of him or his.” And as 
she thus gave way to her disgust, she cast the papers, both inclosure and 
envelope, with indignation from her. , 

Urfort gave them a sly glance as they lay rejected on the table, and then 


226 


transfusion: or, the 


exclaimed, “Poor Monsieur Altoz! and this after he had been priding 
himself that he was a favourite with Ma’m’selle •” 

“ Does the kid love the hungry jackal ?” cried the excited maiden ; — “ but, 
good Urfort, enough and too much of this bad man ! The count — whither 
shall I bend my steps to share his sorrow ?” 

“His lordship p'roposes to direct his course towards the interior of Switz- 
erland, as he thinks that those who are in pursuit of him will be less likely 
to turn their search thitherward. This will take him through Unwalden.” 

“Unwalden! There then will I meet De Mara. Place of my earliest 
joys— of my most peaceful recollections ; — abode of happiness, serenity, 
and smiles. Yes, Unwalden! 1 will make thee ten-fold and twenty-fold 
more dear to my heart, by making thee the scene of my re-union with 
him for whom alone my heart yet holds its pulse.” 

Scarcely had she concluded this asseveration, when their conference was 
interrupted by the entrance of Albert. His countenance bore the marks 
of grief ; and his eye, in lieu of its wonted buoyancy, crouched ground, 
wards, as though the weight of his heart had been imparted to the heart’d 
tell-tale : the fine fresh look of humanity, which had heretofore sat trium- 
phant on his brow, was debased ; and it appeared as if this fairy creature 
of affection and romance had deeply drank his first but too sufficing 
draught of the world’s embittering mixture. 

“ My sister, my sister!” he exclaimed ; — “ Oh, let me gaze on you, and 
revive the honest feelings of my nature, for my eyes have been withered — 
my senses appalled, by the disgusting scenes to which I have been sub- 
mitted.” 

He paused, as if waiting to be comforted by the well-known voice of his 
Madeline ; and then, the voice not coming to his expectant ear, he cried, 
“ You speak not, sister ; — you seem not to heed my sorrows. This long, 
long night, I have been inmated with thieves — companioned with crimi- 
nals, till De Mara’s host could be sent for to show that I was the sufferer, 
not the participator. Sister, will you not speak comfort to your poor Albert, 
half-distracted with the ordeal he has undergone ?” 

“ De Mara !” cried the unhappy girl, for that one sound alone had really 
reached her sense : — “ yes ; I will speak comfortable things of him.” 

“ Speak not of him,” exclaimed Albert, with vehemence ; — “ let not his 
name be uttered ; — let no sign of him, no hint., no smallest thing that 
gives token of the existence of such a monster, be made palpable to my 
aching soul.” 

“ Nay — nay, Master Albert,” said Urfort, now for the first time inter- 
fering, as if somewhat fearing the effects the youth’s words might produce 
on the determination of the maiden ; nay, nay, Master Alhert, this is mere 
romance. The count may have had much provocation for what has so 
unfortunately come to pass.” 

Albert, summoned by this voice from the regard which had hitherto been 
undeviatingly bestowed upon his sister, turned his look towards the last 
speaker. He gazed ; — and by some undefinable chain of associations his 
whole acquaintance with Urfort flashed on the instant across his brain. 

“ Ah, ha !” he exclaimed, with fearful energy of manner ; “ 1 know you 
now. Once as I glanced at your fiend-like visage as you stood with hate- 
ful smile watching the life-6lood as it poured from hapless Wahrend, the 
thought darted through my mind that that same look had met my gaze be- 
fore. Now, now, 1 remember all ! The lake — the jetty, the pale moon — 
and the ruffian grasp ! Yes, 1 remember all.” 

Urfort was cowed by the denouncing accents with which the youth de- 
clared his sudden recollection of what had formerly occurred between them ; 
and he could hardly command sufficient presence of mind to mutter some- 
thing about his entire ignorance of the circumstances to which Albert 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


I'f : 


!• 


I 

I 






-• 








227 


seemed to be referring But the excited brother saved him the use of fur- 
ther words ; for scarcely listening to the confused sounds that fell from his 
bps, he continued— “ Silence, thou man of many sins ! and do you, my sister 
learn to know this human pest. Listen to my words, from which even he 
with all his reckless hardihood, shrinks abashed. Gaze on his face and 
you will see that it speaks a soul within acquainted with the thousand 
windings and cajoleries of vice. Oh, Madeline, stand not near that, wretch • 
be not within reach of his grasp ; pollution is in his touch— murder is the 
demon he serves.” 

“ Oh, no,” cried Madeline ; “ he is my good angel ; he comes with my 
salvation on his lips : he is the leading star that is to conduct me to Unwal- 
den, whither I go to meet De Mara.” 

“ Sacred and inscrutable powers !” exclaimed the brother, « for what 
further miseries do you reserve the Orphans of Unwalden ? She, who 
should have been the ruler and director for both seems to have lost all 
strength and guidance even for herself : and I, who have yet the ability to 
judge the right, am impotent for its execution. Alas, alas, no friend of 
trust to aid ! No sagacious spirit to direct ! Oh that our gentle uncle did 
but know the dangerous peril that hems us round ! Oh that the good Ma- 
dam Lalande had but lived still to tend us with maternal watch !” 

As he spoke these words, his eye by some strange chance rested on the 
packet that Madeline had rejected as unworthy of her notice. The ad- 
dress of the inclosure — 

“A Madame 

Madame Lalande, 

Genfeve,” 

attracted his attention ; and with the tone in which his mind then was the 
neglected paper seemed to him to be some missive sent in answer to his 
appeal. Had he perused the accompanying introduction of the chevalier, 
the marvel would have ceased, and the charm would not have worked to 
this superstitious bearing. But his eye rested alone on the sealed epistle 
that was addressed to her whose memory he had just so pathetically ad- 
jured. There was no clue that told him how the letter met his w T ondering 
gaze ; and it was therefore the more easily interpretable into a mysterious 
and inexplicable reply to his invocation of the shade of his departed moni- 
tor. It was in such a frame of mind as this that he eagerly seized the 
deceptive paper, and perused its contents. They were cunningly worded, 
but withal so vaguely, as not to trench too minutely upon particulars. 
The cunning, however, was hardly needed ; for, vague or minute, they 
were just of a nature to take possession of the whole of Albert’s heart. 
He had found himself opposed to his sister, and he wanted an arbitrator : 
— he had found himself called upon to fight the battle of prudence against 
her imprudence, and he wanted a champion : — he had found the whole 
weight of a most threatening chain of circumstances thrust upon him, and 
he felt that he must be crushed beneath the pressure unless one more pow- 
erful than himself came to his assistance. It wa3 at this moment— the 
very crisis of his struggle — that the treacherous missive of Altoz came 
within his reach. It was no time to doubt the genuineness of such a com- 
munication. The relaxation of Seaton’s resolution, and the apology for 
the letter being penned in a feigned hand, were received as deserving all 
credence ; and when he came to the proposal that the orphans should im- 
mediately proceed to Unwalden, there to meet their long-lost friend, the 
tidings elicited from his utterance a very scream of delight. The arbitra- 
tor was provided — the champion was forthcoming — and in Seaton was to 
be found one whose experience would well be able to bear the load that 
had nearly overborne the brother’s weaker powers of endurance. 

Urfort "watched the gradual illumination of the youth’s countenance as 


228 


transfusion: or, the 


he traced the fictitious lines which the chevalier had penned, and at length 
was fain to confess to himself that the project of a letter in the uncle’s name 
was a well-timed manoeuvre, and calculated to clear his way from the last 
difficulty which seemed to bode ill to its desired completion. 

In the mean while Madeline grew impatient. She had no motive to 
fill up the interval (like Urfort) with watching the change of expression 
which was manifested in the face of her brother ; and aught that assumed 
the shape of pause or cession of procedure came to her disturbed fancy like 
the threatened ruin of her new world of hope. 

“ Come, Urfort,” cried she ; “ we must depart this instant, or the count 
will reach Unwalden before we are on our journey thither.” 

“ Oh, how those names of Urfort and De Mara,” exclaimed Albert, 
“ come like a blot on the sweet thoughts that this dear paper has inspired ! 
Look on this letter, sister, and read the words of him ” 

“ Of whom ? — De Mara ?” 

“ No ; of one as angel-minded as the Frenchman is black of heart — of 
Seaton !” 

“ I will read no letter,” exclaimed Madeline, impatiently; “I know no 
Seaton ; I have but one duty left, and that is to share the count’s affliction. 
Come, Urfort, we must away !” 

“ Still that hateful union of names ! To match the combination, hell 
must be searched — not earth. Sister, hearken to the words of him who loves 
you more than life. Avoid this man — this fiend, and I will myself conduct 
you to Unwalden.” 

This was the point for which Urfort had waited ; and he now spoke in his 
turn. “ It is not worth while to battle with your prejudices, young gentle- 
man,” said he ; “and as to accompanying Ma’m’selle to Unwalden, that 
is not in my power, for I have elsewhere to bestow myself; so I give you 
both good day.” And then, as he moved towards the door, he whispered 
to his victim, “ remember, if you would meet the count at Unwalden, your 
journey must be instant.” With these words he disappeared. 

“ Now again I breathe a wholesome air,” cried Albert, as he watched his 
departure ; “ why was it that I feared to grapple with him, and deliver him 
to the hands of justice ? Twice did the shade of Wa’nrend seem to call on 
me to the duty ; and twice all my sinews shrank impotent and nerveless at 
the thought of coming in closer contact with one so vile, or again visiting 
the hateful walls that held me last night imprisoned to confirm his capture.” 

“ Albert., Albert,” cried the maiden, “ why do we linger here? Ere this 
we should have bidden a long farewell to Geneva, and be seeking the pro- 
mised haven of happiness and restoration.” 

“ You say well,” replied the brother, glad to be recalled from the pain- 
ful feelings that at that moment oppressed his bosom : — “we will waste no 
further time.” 

Little preparation was necessary to enable them to embark on their 
journey. Madeline, still engrossed in the one enthrilling idea that she was 
about to be reunited to De Mara, sat silent till the chaise that was to convey 
her to her destination was ready ; or, if she ever spoke, it was only to com- 
plain that the lapse even of a minute was too much for her patience, when 
such a result was attending on her progress. But with Albert it was very 
different. A thousand visions of gladness opened upon him ; and when ho 
sprang into the carriage, it was with the feelings of a man who had pro- 
cured at length the wherewithal by which he was enabled to shake off 
some frightful impression that had moved as he moved — paused as he 
paused — and was ever overhead, threatening to descend and sink him to 
annihilation. Had no ldtter from Seaton arrived, still he must (failing to 
persuade her stay) have accompanied his sister on her journey — still he 
must have done his utmost to counteract the fatal influence that seemed to 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


229 


be her be-all. How ten thousand times blessed, then, was he that at this 
very crisis of his movements, that so precious a missive should reach him to 
cheer him to his task, and to promise that consummation which was nearest 
to his heart ! At Unwalden he might hope for every thing: — the place was 
made sacred by their earliest recollections ; — it was the spot where their 
mother had taught them, and where they had felt that obedience to her 
wishes was their most desired endeavour ; — it was the hallowed ground 
that contained the remains of that mother, and where her spirit might best 
be supposed to be watching over their actions, and .guiding their course. 
All these were soothing thoughts, that gave goodly token of success ; and 
they gathered round the prime recollection that there Seaton was to be 
recovered, as the ring and satellites of Saturn adorn and aid the brilliancy 
of that luminary of heaven. 

Thus flowed the thoughts of Albert ; or, whenever they lagged in their 
joy- giving tendency, he would read again and again the letter that had 
wooed him to so much happiness, and endeavour to find fresh meaning in 
each sentence — new seeds of delight in each of the few words it contained. 
It announced no pardon to Madeline ; — it gave no reason for summoning 
them to Unwalden ; — all was left to future explanation : but still the sum- 
mons was given — still the promise of reunion was held out ; and Albert 
thought that he could trace even in the very signature a token of the good 
man’s remembrance of former days. The paper, after stating that there 
were motives for adopting a feigned hand, was signed “ H. S.” — the natural 
abbreviation of Henry Seaton : yes, even in this, Albert thought he could 
trace a kindness ; for had the old man still held his offended feelings, the 
signature would have been Manvers rather than Seaton — his real name 
rather than that by which he had so long been known and endeared to the 
Orphans of Unwalden. Thus argued Albert ; — thus on small foundation 
built he high expectations. Alas, poor youth ! little did he dream that the 
only reason why the initial was “S.” instead of “M.” was because the 
parties, who had concocted the forgery, only knew the elder by the name 
of Seaton. 

With such consoling thoughts implanted in his bosom, well might the 
orphan look glad as he felt the swift roll of the carriage under him giving 
notice of their rapid advance towards his home-village ; — well might his 
heart light up at the recollection of all the charms of Unwalden, long fos- 
tered in nis memory, but now about to be realised in sooth— well might he 
have invoked the spot, whither he was so gladly and so speedily returning, 
in the words of the gentle poet — 

« Where’er I roam, whatever realms to see, 

My heart, untravell’d fondly turns to thee.” 

Meanwhile Urfort, after pausing awhile on the stairs that conducted 
from Madeline’s apartment to the street to re-adjust his disguise, proceeded 
stealthily, but with rapid pace, towards Kobolt’s auberge to regain the 
count, and give him the signal for commencing his journey to Unwalden, 
with fair promise of meeting there the deluded maiden. 

De Mara, in spite of all the comfortable assurances that had been preached 
to him by Urfort and the chevalier, was still the prey of a thousand doubts 
and misgivings. The death-scene of Wahrend haunted him with a fearful 
succession of ill-forboding phantoms ; and the thought of what might hap- 
pen, should he fall into the hands of justice before he got clear of the Swiss 
Jurisdiction, would force itself on his mind in spite of his strenuous efforts 
to think of Madeline, and Madeline only. Nor with respect to her did he 
feel altogether assured, notwithstanding the confident manner and predic- 
tions of Urfort. He knew that he had a determined enemy in her brother, 
52—4 


m 


transfusion : or, the 

and he knew that that enemy was too well aware of the dishonourable 
means that had been the cause of so fatally terminating the previous day’s 
encounter. It was therefore with anxious feelings that he attended the 
return of Urfort, one moment picturing his continued absence as arising 
from having been arrested by the police of Geneva, and at another as 
emanating from the impossibility of obtaining Madeline’s consent to pro- 
ceed to Unwalden. . 

As soon as Urfort entered the room where the count was thus pondering 
over the circumstances that environed him, the latter hastily exclaimed, 
‘‘The news ! the news ! and for once let one word speak all.” 

“ One word cannot do it,” replied the other ; “ but one sentence can. 
Madeline is already on her road towards Unwalden.” 

De Mara looked at his informant for a moment, as if he were almost in- 
credulous of the possibility of such good tidings being true; and then, as 
suddenly entering into the belief, he sprang from his seat, and cried, “ The 
chaise ! the chaise ! quick ; we have not an instant to lose.” 

“ Your lordship forgets that the chevalier is to provide the chaise ; be- 
sides which, it is impossible to depart till he finds the means, which in these 
unromantic days are absolutely necessary for the safe conduct of any jour- 
ney.” 

“ That is true !” exclaimed De Mara ; “ now could I find it in my con- 
science to excommunicate Altoz for ever from my friendship for this ill-timed 
delay, when he must know, or ought to know, that a minute to-day, is ot 
more value to me than a year in time to come.” 

It was not long, however, before the chevalier reached the hotel where 
he was so anxiously expected. 

“ Altoz,” cried the count, as soon as he saw him enter, “I do not know 
that I shall ever forgive you for wasting these precious moments. But how 
now, chevalier ? what has dressed your face in so dark a cloud ? you seem 
to have borrowed my colours of half an hour ago. Cheerily, man ; all goes 
well ; and a few hours gives Madeline to my arms.” 

“ Count De Mara,” said he who was thus addressed, very gravely, “ the 
chaise is at the door, and in it you will find the box of which you spoke, and 
the pistols which you solicited as a loan. Have 1 performed my promise ?” 

“ Right well, chevalier !” returned the count, with an accent of surprise ; 
“ but why this question, and why this gravity?” 

“Have I not always proved myself your friend ?” continued Altoz, with- 
out relaxing from his former tone. 

“Nay, this is becoming ridiculous !” exclaimed De Mara, with a laugh ; 
“ you can answer that question as well as I ; so, good chevalier, I cannot 
stay any longer to be catechised.” 

“ One word more,” cried Altoz, “ and I have done. Will it please you 
to explain how Monsieur Wahrend came by his death ?” 

The count started, and turned pale. At length he said, “ 1 thought you 
told me yesterday that you knew every thing connected with that melan- 
choly circumstance.” 

“ I thought I did,” returned the chevalier, “ when I had been informed by 
your host that a duel had taken place between you and the Swiss, and that 
the fortune of the encounter had been yours. But— but — why should I 
conceal the fact? 1, as well as the other members of the Knot with whom 
you were known to be connected, have been waited on this morning by the 
chief of police in Geneva, and he has laid before us evidence which, if true, 
gives a character to the nature of that duel, which yesterday I should have 
denounced as most false and impossible.” 

“ And why not so to-day ?” 

“ Facts that seem to bear truth on the face of them have been submitted 
to us : the bloody footstool partly broken as if by the weight of some heavy 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


*81 


body falling on it, and some of the expressions of the dying man that were 
overheard by one of the gaiyons of the hotel, appear to give confirmation to 
the decisive testimony of Albert. Neither can I forget that your own con- 
duct towards me last night was somewhat enigmatical; tlmugh till this evi- 
dence was detailed, I knew not how to guess at its meaning. Let one word 
tell all. 1 have executed your commission, because my word was passed to 
do so ; but my more important business here is to demand in the name of 
our friends, from whom I come deputed, an explanation of this affair.” 

“ Altoz, Altoz, is this your friendship for me ?” cried the count ; « and at 
a moment when you knew that I must instantly depart for Unwalden or 
lose Madeline for ever. Perhaps even these few minutes snatch her from 
my arms.” 

“I think, count,” returned the chevalier, “that the want of friendship 
arose with you rather than with me. Let this matter be explained, and I 
am still your friend. I have already shown it this morning, for when it was 
understood that the motive of the police in making the Knot acquainted with 
what had happened was in the hopes that they might assist in your arrest, a 
proposal for giving you up was seriously entertained ; and I believe I may 
say, that it was owing to my interference that it was rejected till you should 
have had full opportunity to explain.” 

“ I thank you for your kindness,” said the count, in a melancholy tone ; 
“ but why say you that it was I that broke the bond of friendship between 
! us ?” 

“ Can you ask that, when you remember that you suffered me to go away 
last night undeceived ? for you must well have imagined that when you 
were implicated in such an affair, I should not long remain unmolested by 
the police. But 1 had determined not to speak of my own private feelings ; 
suffice it to say, that I am here as the representative of the Knot, and in 
their name 1 demand an explanation.” 
i , “And by what right does the Knot make this demand ?” 

“This question from you, count De Mara!” replied Altoz ; “ have you 
j indeed forgotten that the bond that has drawn us together is that of honour ? 
Do you not remember the w'ay in which you yourself so strenuously op- 
posed the admission of the Marquis of Cavella, because it was whispered 
that he had shrunk from a challenge in Padua ; and when it was urged upon 
you by his proposer that it was too much to try a man on mere rumour, 
your answer was, that even the breath of a whisper of dishonour was enough 
to require his rejection ? These things must be fresh in your memory ; and 
it is these things which entitle the Knot to demand an explanation of this 
affair.” 

“ They shall have it then,” cried De Mara ; “but on one condition — that 
you, as their representative, will meet me at Unwalden for that purpose. \ 
think this is not too much to require at your hands, as you are well aware 
how peremptorily my departure is demanded.” 

« Your condition shall be agreed to,” replied Altoz ; “ the Knot have left 
this affair to my absolute disposal ; and I pledge myself to be at Unwalden 
as soon as possible after you, for the final settlement of it. Till then, fare- 
well. Let me however add, by way of advice, that you will do well to be 
cautious. From the observations of the chief of police, there can be little 
doubt that every exertion will be made to procure your arrest.” 

“ I am obliged for your caution,” said the count, somewhat stiffly : “till 
we meet at Unwalden, farewell.” 

The chevalier then took his departure to return to the city ; and in an- 
other minute DcMara and Urfort were in pursuit of the orphans. 


232 


TRANSFUSION : OR, THE 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

Beatr. Why, ’tis impossible thou canst be so wicked, 

Or shelter such a cunning cruelty ; 

To make his death the murderer of my honour ! 

Thy language is so bold and vicious, 

I cannot see which way I can forgive it 
With any modesty. 

De/lores. Pish ! you forget yourself. 

A woman dipt in blood, and talk of modesty ! 

Middleton and Rowlev’s Changeling, 

An opportunity has already been taken in the preceding chapter to de- 
scribe the feelings of joy with which Albert undertook to conduct his sister 
to Unwalden, whither he went in the full expectation of meeting Seaton. 
But before the carriage reached its place of destination, some portion of his 
gladness of heart had evaporated. Since the commencement of Madeline’s 
unsuspected disease (which was hourly becoming stronger and stronger, 
and more decisively marked each minute in the agitation of her manner, and 
the wildness of her language) Albert for the first time found himself in un- 
interrupted tSte-a-t6te with the afflicted one. On previous occasions one 
intruder or another had interfered, and he had never been alone with her 
sufficiently long for him to scan carefully the meaning of those changes 
which were but too visible. It was not so in this instance however. The 
carriage rolled steadily onwards towards the goal which both its inmates 
were so desirous of attaining, and no external object presented itself to 
distract the attention of Albert from his sister, or to interrupt that flow of 
thought which for the last few days had had such omnipotent possession of 
her imagination. 

But though the prospect of a reunion with De Mara ought, to have been 
nearly certified to the expectation of the maiden, it was on this very point 
that she displayed that fickleness of conclusion, which is so peculiarly 
characteristic of those who are labouring under a disturbed intellect, and 
whose inconsecutiveness of apprehension is at once the consequence and 
the indication of “ the mind diseased.” For awhile her heart was over- 
flowing with joy at the thought that she had insured her grand design of 
being reunited to the count. But suddenly another idea forced itself into 
her imagination. The recollection of Albert’s unwillingness to assist her 
in such an object— of his aversion to the nobleman— of his unremitting at- 
tempts to persuade her to abandon the fugitive — all came at once upon her 
mind, and furnished her with the thought that her brother had only in- 
veigled her into the chaise upon the promise of conducting her to IJnwal- 
den, while in fact the direction in which they were proceeding was far con- 
trary to the realization of that promise. 

“Albert,” cried she, wildly, as the thought gained admission to her 
brain, “ whither are we journeying ? What road is this along which the 
horses pace so rapidly ? And why do your eyes glisten, as each moment 
bears us further and further on our travel ?” 

The youth gazed at her who thus questioned with wonder ; and there 
was a pause before he replied— “ If one question may answer another, let 
me rather ask why these inquiries?” 

“ Ah, do you equivocate !” cried she “ nay, then, I read it all. Stop 
the chaise! — Quick, quick this instant call to the driver to turn his 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 


25S 

horses’ heads ; or I will spring from the carriage, and show you how well 
I understand your meaning.” 

“ Gracious Heaven ! my sister,” exclaimed the affrighted youth, « what 
does this portend ? Are we not on the road to Unwalden, and will not a 
few short hours bring us to the cherished spot, where happiness was ours 
for so many years, and will be so again, under the kindly care of our return- 
ing uncle ?” 

“ This is not the road to Unwalden,” cried Madeline ; “ I remember no 
part of these woods, these rocks, or these tracks. You are conducting me 
by some strange and unknown route away from him who in himself is all 
the world to me.” 

“ Nay, sister ; now I see that you are doing this only to grieve my heart, 
and make heavy this journey, which should be all lightness and rejoicing. 
Look at yon running stream, that dashes in harmless 'fury against the 
antique bridge that crosses it, and then subsides into a smooth and unruf- 
fled surface, giving bright reflection of tree that waves, and cloud that 
floats above. Do you not remember passing here on our way to Geneva ? 
Do you not remember saying, as you cast a melancholy look upon this 
self-same prospect, ‘ Oh that my uncle could gaze upon my heart as I do 
upon this stream, and behold how truly the rude gushing of my passions 
has subsided into calmness and sobriety, reflecting nought but the recollec- 
tion of his kindness and fostering care !’ ” 

“Did I say so?” faintly ejaculated the poor half-wilted maiden : “and 
is this, indeed, the road to Unwalden?” added she, as she remembered 
something of what Albert had narrated. 

“You are nought, Madeline,” replied the brother, “to ask such a ques- 
tion : — do you not remember } r on high cliff that climbs and climbs with 
many craggy stages towards the sky, as though it would thrust its utter- 
most head into the very bosom of the firmament ? It was on that rock you 
wished to stand, endowed with an omniscient eye, that you might pene- 
trate from its commanding summit into the heart of each region of ihe 
globe, and so trace where it was that the good Seaton was concealing him- 
self from our, longing search.” 

“ And when shall we reach Umvalden, if this indeed be true ?” 

“ Soon, very soon, dear Madeline ! But, oh ! how tenfold sooner in ap- 
pearance, would my sister but dismiss these strange and inexplicable fan- 
cies, and let her thoughts flow in the same sweet spirit as when we last 
journeyed on this road ! Then my ears heard you not ; and in what I 
have related, I have rather given your purport than your words, explained 
to me in such signs as might best instruct my defective sense. But now 
when I have perfect organs, and your gentle voice would be as music to 
me, you speak not, or speak only to harass and perplex.” 

“Alas! dear Albert, I can speak only of one thing,” murmured the 
maiden : — “but is it, indeed, Unwalden that we approach?” And then, 
as if unconscious that she had asked the question, she put her head out of 
the window of the chaise without waiting for reply, and appeared to be 
carefully studying each object that the varying road presented, as if she 
would again and again assure herself that she was not being deceived, or 
unwittingly made the victim of treachery. 

But though now silent, she had said enough to alarm the mind of Albert, 
and awaken it from that state of tranquil hope which the expectation of 
meeting Seaton at Unwalden had conferred upon it. The strange manner 
in which his sister had questioned the honesty of his intentions, and the 
want of controul that appeared to predominate over every word and action 
that escaped her, launched the youth into a sea of doubt and conjecture, 
the current of which bore him far away from the real solution of the mys- 
tery. In vain he taxed his imagination to discover what Madeline’s way- 
4* 


234 


transfusion: OR, TflE 

wardness of language might portend ; — in vain he sought to persuade 
himself that he still had power to direct her course aright. He could not 
bring his mind to these conclusions ; for though true it was that for awhile 
her wild suspicions seemed to be lulled, the recollection of their outpour- 
ing was still unaccounted for, and reminded him that again they might 
burst forth equally unexpectedly, and baffle his best endeavours to quell 
their overwhelming spirit. 

The consideration of these difficulties recalled to his mind the means of 
discovery which were within his possession ; and each time that this power 
of solution presented itself to his imagination, the more entirely conviction 
came upon him that this was the only method by which he could hope to 
ascertain the real purport of those impulses which were swaying his sister’s 
conduct. 

The enforced recurrence of this remedy to his mind was productive of 
one advantage. The time had been when he could not contemplate for a 
moment the possibility of putting his dear-prized theory into practice with- 
out a sort of involuntary shrinking from the task, as if it was prompting 
him to something like the pollution of all that he held most choice and sa- 
cred. It was the strength of this sensation that led him to resist so vigor- 
ously the proposal of Madeline that the first effect of this discovery should 
be tried on De Mara. To have devoted the mysterious boon to such a 
purpose was frightful to his imagination ; but when the incoherent manner 
of his sister, on receipt of the news of Wahrend’s death, had urged him to 
employ his precious engine of elucidation, the pain with which he contem- 
plated the effort was materially diminished ; and though it might be that 
the summons of the officer to attend the syndics appeared even at that 
period as a sort of relief to his feelings, yet the resolution which he had then 
taken to work the Soul’s Transfusion between Madeline and himself had 
served to pave the way to his more willingly coming to the same determi- 
nation on the present occasion, and had enabled him to look upon this prac- 
tical exhibition of what might be called the mistress of his soul, without 
the accompaniment of those repulsive sensations which might have unfitted 
him for the labour. 

Each mile that the carriage rolled on towards its place of destination — 
each moment that he sat in fearful expectation that Madeline might again 
burst forth in the same strain of suspicious unkindness that had character- 
ised her late ejaculations — confirmed him the more resolutely in his pur- 
pose ; and by the time that he first caught a glimpse of the well-known 
village rising in the distant landscape, his determination was firm and strong 
to effect the great change of souls as soon as they should have reached their 
long-abandoned home. 

The chaise stopped at the door of the Single Cottage ; and as an old 
woman was in possession of it for the purpose of keeping it in order, the 
re-instatement of the orphans in their whilomc peaceful dwelling was a 
matter of easy accomplishment. But though thus far the arrangement 
was complete, the minds of both the travellers were in a state of painful 
suspense. Madeline looked for the arrival of De Mara with impatience 
heaped on impatience, as the poets of old feigned mountain heaped on 
mountain ; and Albert heard with astonishment from the old guardian of 
the cottage that Seaton had given no token of his being at Unwalden or in 
its neighbourhood. 

This unaccountable absence of their uncle might have been an additional 
motive for Albert’s immediately undertaking the task he had prescribed to 
himself; but the condition of Madeline, on finding that De Mara was 
equally as unheard-of as Seaton, once again made him shrink. Having 
dismissed the old woman to the village-inn, there to inquire whether any 
intelligence concerning Seaton could be ascertained, the youth sought to 


ORPHANS OF tyNWALDJEN. 


285 


appease the disturbed emotions of his sister. He endeavoured to distract 
her thoughts from their one-engrossing theme, by bringing to her recollec- 
tion those associations with which his own heart teemed when he remem- 
bered where he was. But m vain !— Still in vain !— The Single Cottage 
seemed to awake in her no more sympathy than the hut that an eremite 
might have built in the wilds of Caucasus. The reminiscences, which 
Albert would have roused, of their earlier days, fell upon her ear dull and 
unprofitable as the solemn bell on that of the corpse whose interment it 
announces. Even the name of her mother — that name which once would 
have drawn floods of earnest tears from the very well-spring of her heart, pro- 
duced no effect on the wretched ruin of mind that still occupied her frame. 

“ 1 will go to the grave of our mother,” cried Albert ; “ and will not my 
sister go with me ? Shall not both the orphans unite their tears on the 
spot that is hallowed for ever in their hearts ? Come, dearest ! Of old it 
was matter of reproach, if either went to that sanctuary of our affections 
without the other. Let us not after so long an absence be separate mourn- 
ers at her tomb.” 

As the youth spoke, he watched the maiden with intense earnestness ; 
and once he thought he traced the approach of a tear to the very brink of 
her eyelids once he thought he saw the bright drop tremble on the ex- 
treme edge, as if ready to do homage to the memory of her he had invoked. 
But, no !— no tears came forth from nature’s fount the eye again assumed 
its fixedness of look — the cheek was still blanched, unwatered by the re- 
freshing moisture of aroused affection ; and, in answer to his appeal, the 
forlorn one did but shake her head in mournful intimation that not even 
this last conjuration had power to bring back the lost apprehensions of her 
mind. 

“O God ! O God !” exclaimed the agonised youth; “and cannot even 
j the sacred name of mother change this frightful picture? Rouse thee, 
then, Albert ! — rouse thee to thy task ; and, ere it be too late, solve this 
inexplicable riddle. And yet, a little minute ! my sister refuses my holy 
invitation to the tomb of our parent. Double then— twice double— yes, 
twice tenfold is the duty mine to kneel on the turf that shrouds those sacred 
remains. All things on the face of earth shall give way to that first of 
charges. How dare I think of doing one simple act till that summons 
from the grave is obeyed ! Yes, my mother, I come, I come ! — and be it 
yours to hover near me, when I return to accomplish the only deed that 
wives prospect of the restoration of your children’s happiness.” 

^ Almost unconsciously he uttered these words, and before they were con- 
cluded he had quitted the cottage, and was rapidly passing towards the 
spot where the remains of the hapless Agnes were interred. Jealous of 
observation, and little desirous, while engaged in this pious errand, of meet- 
ing the gaze of the loiterers of the hamlet, he crept with stealthy pace and 
by 5 unfrequented paths to the churchyard of the village each step, as it 
bore him nearer and nearer to that place of rest eternal, served to attune 
his mind to the object that commanded his motions, and to allay the 
more corrosive sensations that his sister’s conduct had inflicted on his 
heart. At length the churchyard was gained all around seemed silent, 
and consecrate to solitude, and her companion— melancholy ; and Albeit 
with quick but trembling pace glided to the well-known corner where a 
green mound and pure white slab marked his mother’s resting-place. Full 
of present love, replete with honest affection, with heart high-beating, with 
pulse swift-flowing, with tears quick-chasing down his burning cheeks, he 
reached the grave ; but all this full course of his soul’s best sentiments 
was checked on beholding, to his utter astonishment, a human form usurp- 
ing that place which he held to be sacredly his own, and kneeling by the 
side of the humble mausoleum. 


236 


TRANSFUSION : OR, THE 


The youth paused irresolute, but not before the echo of his approaching 
footfall had reached the kneeler’s ear. He looked up — hesitated, as if in 
doubt for a moment ; and then “ Albert, dearest Albert !” broke upon the 
hearing of the orphan, whose voice almost in a shriek responded, “ Uncle ! 
— Seaton ! — Oh, my God, I thank thee for this !” and at the same minute 
the two were kneeling where they had often knelt before, fast locked in 
each other’s embrace, and silently invoking her, who had brought them 
thither, to be witness of their rapture. 

“ Dearest, dearest Albert,” at length cried Seaton, “how comes this 
happiness? Why at Unwalden ? — But, alas ! I forget; you cannot hear 
my words, and ” 

“ Cannot I hear your words ?” replied Albert, with a melancholy smile : 
“ methinks, though I never heard that dear voice before, I should have 
known it amid a Babel of sounds, for it comes soft and gentle on my ear, 
as 1 ever accented it in my mind’s fancy.” 

“And do you, indeed, hear me speak? What joy! What delight! 
But let explanation pause awhile, for I have a thousand other questions to 
ask. Where is Madeline ?” 

“ Where should she be, dear uncle, but at the Single Cottage ?” 

“ That is strange ! 1 stopped at the village-inn but ten minutes since, 

and they told me that you had quitted Unwalden the morning after my 
departure, and had not since returned.” 

“ True ! true !” cried Albert ; “ our arrival is hardly older than your 
own : but we got your letter directed to Madame Lalande, at Geneva, 
and could we for a moment hesitate ?” 

“ What letter ? Madame Lalande is not at Geneva.” 

“Alas ! no returned Albert, with a sigh ; “ unless it may be said that 
our poor mother is at Unwalden. Poor lady ! she died most suddenly.” 

“ Died suddenly ! and at Geneva ! These are strange mysteries. It is 
only five days since that I quitted Madame Lalande at Genoa.” 

“ Gracious Heaven ! my uncle,” exclaimed the youth ; “ full a month 
ago, Count de Mara told us that she was dead. Nay, she must have been, 
for we heard of some examination before the syndics on account of her 
sudden decease.” 

“ You have been fearfully deceived, my Albert. God grant that I may 
yet be in time to avert the mischief which such falsehood must have been 
intended to cover ! Who is this Count De Mara ?” 

“Oh, mention him not; he is a fiend — a monster — the murderer of the 
good and gentle Wahrend, who fell beneath his hand.” 

“ Wahrend dead !” cried the old man, with tears ; “ when will this scene 
of horror terminate? But his destroyer — what of him?” 

“ He either is at Unwalden, or will be here anon.” 

“ Why do the officers of justice bring him here ?” 

“ He brings himself, alas ! He is not yet arrested, having, in spite of 
all diligence, escaped their search.” 

“How is this?” demanded Seaton; “you know his intentions; you 
know that he is the murderer of Wahrend— and yet you tell me that he is 
at liberty. Why do you not have him seized ?” 

“ Madeline ! Madeline !” exclaimed Albert, almost frantic at the ques- 
tion. 

“ Ah, I see it now. Is she with this De Mara ? But, no ; you told me 
a minute since that she was at the Single Cottage. Where will this man 
stay when he arrives at Unwalden ?” 

“ At the village-inn, most likely.” 

“ At the inn !” cried Seaton ; “ why, now I remember, just as I quitted 
it to come hither, a carriage drove up with the blinds so closely drawn, that 
I could but just discern that it contained two travellers.” 


ORPHANS OP UNWALDEN. 


287 


“ It must have been the count, and that villain Urfort ,” exclaimed Albert 
“ Who is Urfort ?” 


“ The abettor of the other in the murder of Wahrend— his creature for 
all wickedness !” 

“ Time, then, is precious : we must away, and inform the magistrate of 
the place who these strangers are. When he hears of the death of Wah- 
rend by their hand, he will be prompt to act ; the whole village will be in 
arms, for right well was the kind Swiss beloved by them.” 

With these words they quitted the churchyard. For a minute both 
seemed wrapped in thought, as they paced rapidly onward side by side. 

At length Seaton exclaimed, “ O Albert, Albert ! What a meeting is 
1 this ! I expected sorrow on my return, but not such sorrow as 'this.” 

“You have not yet explained the motive of that return,” cried the youth. 

“A word must do it now, till a more time-serving opportunity occurs, 
i Often and often did I reproach myself for having left you, but could not 
strain my courage to the pitch of returning, till, entirely by accident, I met 
Madame Lalande at Genoa five days ago. She told me that she had 
neither seen nor heard any thing of you while residing at Geneva, but that 
she had been detained at Genoa for some months by a long fit of illness, 
from which she was even then but barely recovered. This intelligence 
struck heavy on my heart ; for one of the consolations with which I had 
continually fostered my sickly fancy was, that in my absence you would 
apply to that lady, and that she would occupy my place in your affections 
and conduct. Indeed, it was the assurance of that which prevented my 
making known to her the course that I was pursuing, lest it should be the 
means of enabling you to discover whither I had retreated.” 

“ It was the information, then, or rather the non-information, that you 
i received from Madame Lalande, that brought you back to Unwalden ?” 

“ I think that would have been sufficient of itself to have accomplished 
my return ; but Madame Lalande added a piece of news which resolved 
me on the instant to set out for Unwalden. By a most extraordinary 
chance, which time will not now allow me to explain, she had come to the 
certain knowledge that your father— that Warner, whom we had so long 
supposed dead, was still alive, and that he had, beyond all doubt, been at 
Geneva very lately, though, whether accident had taken him thither, or a 
suspicion of the direction in which Agnes had retreated, could not be 
! ascertained.” 

“Then we are not orphans !” cried Albert. 

“Alas, that you were!” replied the other; “I cannot describe to you 
the horror with which I contemplated the possibility of your being encoun- 
tered by that fiend in human shape excuse the appellation, dear Albert ; 
but did you know as much of that man’s life as I do, you would be com- 
pelled to admit that my designation of him is too painfully true. Thank 
God, the pang of his having discovered his deserted children is at least 


spared me.” , 

“ But how extraordinary that, without premeditation, both you and we 
should have returned to Unwalden at the same moment !” 

“ Let it inspire us with the hope that all may yet be well. The letter of 
which you have spoken is evidently a wicked fabrication of De Mara, and 
thus in his cunning is he foiled ; for by bringing you here he has brought 
you to my care— when I, by my coming, only thought of protecting you 
against a man with whom you have not met. De Mara we shall be able 
to overthrow; but I confess, had I had to encounter Warner, the task 
would have been dreadful— perhaps too much for my strength. On receiv- 
ing Madame Lalande’s intelligence, I thought that I could dare any > 
and on the spur of the feeling, I set out for Unwalden with the vow that, 
should he be here, I would confront him, and bid him shrink with horror at 


238 


transfusion: or, the 


the sight of the injured Manvers. But during my journey I have had time 
to recollect his hardened brutality — his impenetrable nature, and to confess 
to myself that such an appeal would have been made in vain. The name 
of Manvers would no more have abashed him, than any other of the hun- 
dred victims whom the course of an ill-spent life has crushed beneath his 
feet.” 

“Oh, uncle, uncle!” cried Albert, “spare these words — spare these 
looks ; and do not call yourself Manvers— to us you have ever been Sea- 
ton. It is the name we love ; and though your farewell letter told us it 
was a fiction, we have ever felt that to our hearts it came as your best 
appellation, for it is associated with all your care and kindness of us.” 

“ Heaven grant, my Albert, that my care and kindness may be able tc 
fulfil your happy destiny ! But we are now at the division of the roads. 
Do you take that which leads to the inn, and ascertain whether the new 
comers be really De Mara and his companion ; while I go to the Single 
Cottage to secure Madeline against the intrusion of this bad man.” 

With these words they parted — each to his separate destination. 

Albert’s conjecture with respect to the occupants of the chaise that had 
stopped at the village-inn, was not ill-founded. Scarcely had Manvers, 
as we must now call him, quitted the threshold of the auberge , when forth 
stepped De Mara and Urfort, and as speedily as the matter could be ar- 
ranged, they took possession of such apartments as the place afforded. 
The count had had a restless journey, and his follower, though he cared 
little for the evident discomposure of his patron’s manner, plainly per- 
ceived that a crisis was on the eve of arrival, and that the affair of Made- 
line must run in direct unison with De Mara’s present temper, or farewell 
to all hopes of obtaining the promised reward, the expectation of which 
alone detained him in attendance on the Frenchman. 

It was with this feeling that he was the first to exclaim, as soon as they 
found themselves alone in the apartment allotted to them, “We must be 
stirring, my lord, and be with the girl before she has an opportunity of see- 
ing any of her old village-cronies.” 

“Urfort,” cried the count, “ my heart misgives me, and I feel as if I 
were even now standing on the brink of life and death. I am here in the 
very midst of my enemies ; — it was from this village Wahrend came — 
how am I to answer his relations, should they discover me ? It is here 
that I have appointed to explain to Altoz that which cannot be explained * 
— how am 1 to reply to the demands my associates require at my hands ?” 

“ Cheerly, cheerly, my patron,” replied Urfort, who had been partly 
prepared for this explosion “ one half hour, and the girl shall be won !— 
mind, I pledge myself to that. The thick-headed Switzers shall indeed 
be clever, if within that space of time they can find you here. And as to 
Altoz and his precious notions of honour, if you will take my advice, you 
will be beforehand with him and his constituents ; and instead of waiting 
for them to cast you off, do you cast them off) and bid them go hang in 
their wisdom.” 

“ Alas ! they have ever been my friends.” 

“ But are so no longer,” returned Urfort, “ after this errand of the che- 
valier. If your lordship remembered as much of Will Shakspeare as I do, 
(and, God wot, I have not read a play of his for this many a year,) you 
would exclaim in the words of Timon — 

‘ You Knot of mouth-friends — smoke and luke-warm water 
Is your perfection.’ 

But we have more pressing business. Do you intend to give up Madeline ?” 

“ It would go near to break my heart to do so, after all the risk and peril , 


ORPHANS OF UN WALDEN. 2S9 

she has cost me. But of all places in the world this was the worst chosen. 
I am full on the enemy’s quarters.” 

“You may thank Altoz for the choice of the place,” cried Urfort. 

“ P° not speak his name the remembrance of him sickens me to the 
death. O De Mara ! De Mara ! how wretched is your estate become, 
when you fear to meet him who was so lately your sworn and bosom 
fnend ! Urfort, I will stay here no longer;— each sound that I hear pic- 
tures to me the approach of no matter whom, for all mankind has exe- 

cration for me. I will fly this instant.” 
j “ And without the girl ? for 3hame, for shame, when half an hour gives 
her to your arms !” 

“Your promises,” cried De Mara, “have lost their impress on me. 
You have led me on too long. Unwalden is my dungeon, and I will stay 
no longer in it.” 

“ Nay, nay, my noble patron,” exclaimed the other, each moment be- 
coming more fearful of the fate of his hundred louis ; “ never before was 
Madeline so completely within our grasp : give me one little half hour, and 
I pledge myself to bring her to your lordship.” 

The count shook his head. 

“Nay, only one half hour; — the risk is nothing; the experiment worth 
a world. Think of her glorious charms ; — call to your recollection her 
thousand beauties ; — and all for one half hour’s sacrifice.” 

“ I will stay the time,” cried the nobleman, wakened by Urfort’s words 
to the memory of all the joys with which he had so long fed himself ; “ but 
remember — only one half hour ! if you exceed that time, or then return 
without her, no power on earth shall detain me.” 

“ I accept the terms,” answered Urfort, “ and in half an hour I bring 
you Madeline as the companion of your further flight. Are you sure that 
you have money enough to continue your journey beyond the means of 
pursuit ? — of course I mean after my hundred louis shall have been paid, 
for I need not remind your lordship on her appearance here they will be 
earned.” 

“Look on this box,” replied the count, opening it; — “see, it is well 
nigh full of gold.” 

“ Ah ! ha !” exclaimed the other ; “ were that mine, I would bid defiance 
to all the thief-takers and all the chevaliers that ever breathed.” 

“ But we waste time,” cried De Mara.” 

“ I will but put this precious load and your pistols safe in the back room, 
lest during my absence the host might enter, and the sight should frighten 
him from his landlordly propriety — and then away to the Single Cottage, 
where no doubt Madeline is safe arrived ere this.” 

“ Put the box in the closet near the window,” said the count ; “ but 
leave the pistols in this room, for 1 have not yet loaded them ; and though 
half an hour (if you keep your promise) will soon be over, I must at all 
events be prepared for the worst, for never shall officer of justice put hand 
upon De Mara.” 

The box w r as soon disposed of as the nobleman had directed ; and then 
Urfort, with another word of assurance to his employer, departed with 
rapid pace for the cottage, where Madeline, left alone by her brother’s 
visit to the grave of their mother; was ruminating in wild and incoherent 
method. 

The road to the Single Cottage was easily found, and he hastened thi- 
ther, giving the few minutes, that the distance occupied, to the considera- 
tion of the manner in which he was to meet the victim of his unlawful 
design. He felt no difficulty as to the state of Madeline’s heart ; but still 
as events had turned out, he could not but perceive that it might require 
great ingenuity to bring her to the terms, which, under the pressure of 


240 


transfusion: or, the 


time and circumstances, would afford the completion that was demanded 
bv the Count. De Mara, it was evident, was on the brink of taking the 
alarm, and the least further delay would be the signal of his abandoning , 
the pursuit, in which case the promised gratuity would disappear at the same 
time as the count. The only method that Urfort could suggest to his mind 
for the prevention of this, was the taking Madeline by storm, and so to play 
upon her fears and passions as to make her yield to the suit of De Mara. The 
office was a dangerous one, and not such as Urfort would willingly have 
undertaken. But what other could be adopted ? A bare half-hour would 
witness De Mara’s flight ; and therefore, unless the maiden could be pressed 
into surrendering at once, all was lost. The only point that promised any 
thing in his favour was the condition of Madeline’s mind. The entireness i 
of her affection for the nobleman was beyond doubt; but Urfort had also j 
discerned something of the intellectual secession of power that had been I] 
gradually taking place, and it was on that perception that he chiefly built 
his plan of attack ; for he thought that if with her dread of losing the count, 
he could so intermingle her share in the late distressful scenes that had 
occurred, the union of the two might so confuse her understanding as to 
leave her at the mercy of her pursuers. 

•' Armed with these resolutions, he reached the Single Cottage, and speedily 
obtained ingress. His presence seemed to have a charmed effect upon the 
maiden. Her countenance brightened as he entered, and she started from jj 
her seat to receive him. 

“ Are you indeed come at last, good Urfort ?” she cried : “ oh, what a 
dreary while it has appeared ! But De Mara — where is he ? Why comes [ 
he not with you ?” 

“ He could not come,” replied the other impressively. 

“Could not come ! Oh, Urfort! what means that ‘could not?* — Is he 
well? Where tarries he ?” 

“ He lies like a guilty thing, lest thoae who seek for him should find theii 
prey.” 

“ But they shall not find him. Who is there here to betray him ? Oh, i 
take me to him, and together we will fly to the world’s end, rather than , 
harm shall reach him.” 

“ But will you promise to console him in his sorrow's ? Will you be his 
in grief and joy ?” * 

“Ami not his?” exclaimed the maiden: — “ w r hat has brought me to 
Unwalden but love for him ? What is it that has raised such strange con- I 
vulsions here, but the share I take in him and his?” And as she spoke she | 
pressed her hand convulsively to her burning forehead. 

“You will not understand me, Madeline,” cried the fiend will you 

K rove that you are his by womanly yielding ? Will you hang fondly round 
is neck, and return pressure for pressure — kiss for kiss ? Will you forget 
the old- woman maxims of a croaking world, and be his in all that woman 
can be man’s V* 

“I will be his wife,” softly murmured Madeline. 

This was a reply for which even Urfort was not prepared : but the mo- 
ments were precious ; and if some answer was not given, all opportunity 
would be lost. Now, thought he, invention stands my friend ! 

“ Madeline,” he replied, with well-affected solemnity, “ that cannot be. 
Start not — tremble not — De Marais already married.” 

The poor creature shrieked as he uttered the words, and would have 
fallen, but that his ready arm supported her to a sort of ottoman that filled 
the window-seat. 

“ Air ! Give me air, for God’s sake !” she exclaimed : “ take this bandage 
from my throat, that seems as if it were grappling me to destruction. But 
you said not married, good Urfort ?” 


ORPHANS OF UNWALDEN. 24 , 

“ The word is true ” cried he ; “ but what then ? Years since he was 
separated from his wife, and you shall take her place in all but the misera- 
ble form that silly laws require.’' 

“ Never 1 never !” said the maiden, distraught ; “ 1 think the wicked 
news has given me strength. Where is my brother ? Stay for me, Albert. 
- Now, NOW ! I can go with you to our mother’s grave.” 

“Nay, nay !” cried Urfort, with a laugh ; “the oniy grave for you is De 
, Mara’s arms. Come, he is near at hand ; I will take you to him.” 

“ Oh, if mercy has any portion in your frame, let me not see him. Mar- 
ried ! Yes, that was the word that sounded like the overwhelming trumpet 
k of earth’s last day ! And yet you would take me to De Mara ! Oh, rather 
, take me from myself, and give me annihilation, in exchange for the thou- 
sand horrors that rack my brain.” 

“You talk vainly, fair maiden,” replied her tormentor ; “ De Mara’s you 
k must be, and his alone. What is it you have brought upon him ? The 
slaughter of the Swiss — an ignominious flight— and the hue and cry of the 
basest of the human race. For all this mischief he has only you as a reward : 
in that at least he must not be foiled.” 

“ Powers of mercy !” cried the afflicted one, “ what is it you say ? I 
think you be a monster, though you wear the semblance of a man.” 

| “It is you that trench on humanity,” answered Urfort with a horrid 
laugh, “in showing such ingratitude, when 1 am labouring for your love. 
But this is child’s play. Remember Wahrend and his bloody death! 
Think you it was De Mara that killed him ? — No, it was you : — you plung- 
ed the glittering weapon in his heart, for it was you that sounded the trum- 
pet to the onslaught.” 

“Oh miserable, wretched Madeline!” 

“It was at your command,” continued Urfort, in his dreadful summary 
— “it was at your command that the count entered on the deadly strife, 
i Not on his head, then, but on yours is the blood of Wahrend. Deep, deep 
i are you imbued in the crime ; and yet now you claim the right to stand 
upon your woman’s modesty, as though you were pure as the unsinning 
babe. It is now that you shrink from your companion — now you desert 
him in his hour of trial.” 

“ Mercy !” cried Madeline, “ mercy!” 

“ What ! was the noble count to fight your battles ? — was he to bare his 
bosom to the Switzer’s angry blade ? — and is he now to be cheated of his 
booty ? Pretty young lady, you must be taught justice, if you know it not. 
t . But we dally with time. De Mara waits, and you must to him.” 

“ Not a thousand winged steeds should drag me to him !” 

“Perhaps so,” cried Urfort, with another of his howling laughs — “ per- 
haps so, for we deal not in hippogrifls ; but at least we will see how much 
one strong man is able to do towards it. — Come, pretty maiden, this w ay to 
i the count and the joys of love.” And, as he spoke, he wound his athletic 
* arms around her form, and bore her onw'ards towards the door of the cottage, 
i while the helpless sufferer shrieked with piteous note, uttering such plaintive 
words as would have w’ooed the heart of aught save such a fiend to mercy. 

But, even as the monster reached the door with his helpless burthen, it 
opened from without, and the Senior, who had hurried forward on hearing 
i the sounds of lamentation, stood before them. For a single moment there 
| was a fear- striking pause, w’hile the two men glared at one another with 
| strange and portentous expression ; and then with simultaneous burst, 
“Manvers !” — “ Warner 1” escaped from either’s lips. 

Yes, it was too true. The demon, that for weeks had been plotting 
Madeline's destruction — the wretch .beyond all wretches, that at that in- 
stant was bearing her to the polluting arms of De Mara, w as no other than 

HER FATHER ! 

52—5 


242 


TRANSFUSION : OR, THE 


“ Most disgusting of fiends!” exclaimed Manvers, who in a moment in- 
terpreted the meaning of the scene; “do we again meet — and at such an. 
epoch? Tremble, villian ; — shrink into nothingness; — or pray the earth 
in her bounty to rend her bosom and engross you, ere 1 tell you the hap- 
less creature you yet hold in your sinful arms is your daughter — the off- 
spring of the broken-hearted Agnes.” 

Warner did tremble at the words: — he tottered from his standing, and 
Madeline would have fallen but; for the seat that was at hand to receive her. 

“Is she indeed my daughter?” groaned the man, as if for the instant 
stricken with the enormity of his guilt. 

“ Thy most unhappy daughter,” answered Manvers, “ as surely as thou 
art the hateful Urfort that hast been working for her utter undoing. But | 
justice — quick-footed justice is upon you. The police is roused ; — thy 
crimes are known ; — and here, in the face of Heaven, I seize upon thee to 
answer thy long course of sin.” 

As he spake, he grappled with the appalled Felon. For a moment it 
seemed as if the animal strength of the latter was so cowed by the guilt 
that was lodged within, that he could not struggle against the grasp even 
of one so feeble as the care-worn Manvers. But the pristine callousness of 
his soul was speedily on its return, and as it gained upon him, it appeared 
to re-instate his nerves and fibres in their ancient vigour. He in his turn i 
seized Manvers. The contest was but momentary. The iron frame and 
compact limbs of Warner found no match in the attenuated powers of his j 
opponent, and one gigantic effort on his part was sufficient to hurl the un- ! 
nerved Senior to the ground. 

“ Lie there, old dotard !’’ exclaimed the conqueror, “ and believe you owe j 

your life to the presence of psha ! What care I for daughter or rela- j 

tionship? But for one piece of information still I thank you. If the police J 
be indeed roused, it is time for Warner to take care of himself: and so, | 
farewell for ever, tottering oid man ; nor seek agam to confront one who | 
may not next time be disposed to treat a gripe of the neck so leniently.” j 

Swiftly he quitted the cottage. The wretched Manvers for a moment I 
hesitated what course to pursue. He knew not how to leave Madeline, 
who, since her release from the grasp of Warner, had continued lying 
motionless, and apparently senseless, on the ottoman ; and yet it swelled 
his heart with indignation to think that the monster might escape, if not 
instantly pursued. 

At this moment Albert entered. 

“ Saw you not W arner ?” cried the senior. 

“ Warner !” exclaimed the youth: “I saw Urfort this moment. He 
fled past me towards the village like a greyhound.” 

“ Towards the village? — Good !— Look to your sister, dear Albert, till I 
return ; or meet me anon at the inn, if I overstay her impatience.” And 
without further explanation he followed in the track which Albert pointed 
out as that of the fugitive. 


ORPHANS OP UNWALDEN. 


243 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

It takes it in itself, and, cunningly 
Changing itself, the object soon perceives ; 

For straight itself in self-same shape adorning 
Becomes the same with quick and strange transforming. 

P. Fletcher. 

The rapid disappearance of his uncle left Albert in a maze of bewilder- 
ment. That which was already dark and obscure grew more and more 
confused to his comprehension, and he found himself in the midst of the 
most threatening uncertainty. What course "to pursue — what steps to 
take, he knew not. He would have pursued Man vers, but his words, 
“ Look to your sister,” still chained him to the spot on which he stood. 

“ Tell me, dear Madeline,” said he, as these words recurred to his 
memory, “ w hat means this strange departure of our uncle ?” 

But Madeline spoke not ; and when he gazed upon her, it seemed to 
him as if she had sunk in slumber on the ottoman which had befriended 
her, when released from the rude grasp of Warner. She appeared to 
Albert’s mind, uninformed of the last half-hour’s events, to sleep ; but still 
he could trace that in her countenance which bore similitude to the expres- 
sion which so often of late had startled him, and which had made him 
anxious, yet fearful, to ascertain the spring whence emanated such bitter 
waters. 

As he looked upon her couchant form, this thought gained full impulse 
I in his mind; and again the moving cry of “Transfusion 1 .” reverberated 
within the living cells of his brain. At one universal swoop he called to 
mind her thousand fitful contrarieties — his own dread of De Mara sharing 
- in the precious mystery — the strange account that Manvers had lately 
1 famished — and the general tpaze of confusion that seemed to pervade all 
, their acts and all their intentions. To all these — each of which was a 

' dagger to his soul— there was but one solution : — that solution lie had 

wiiTlnn his beck and ken ; and passive— motionless before him lay the 
i medium of his enterprise. 

This, then, was at length the moment for the accomplishment of the 
Soul’s Transfusion. Now must he strain his whole nerve and fibre to the 
accomplishment of the labour, and give real evidence that he indeed pos- 
< sessed the power, with the theory of which he had so long been pampering 
his brain. 

But though all this and more he urged upon himself as he stood over 

the recumbent form of the exhausted maiden, there was that within him 

which sickened to the death, as he endeavoured to string his resolution to 
the proper pitch. What was it that he was about to attempt ?— Whither 
would it lead him?— And what assurance had he that he could steady the 
whole of this trying course with so curbing a hand, as to be master through- 
out of each movement that the change required? — Now that the trial scene 
| was in sooth before him, a thousand first-born perils rushed in quick suc- 
| cession through his soul, and he trembled at the stupendous magnitude of 
the machine he was called upon to govern. A night of scaring and mys- 
terious sensations enveloped him ; and he was like the traveller, when lie 
wanders, solitary and timorous, through the midnight gloom over some 
vast infrequent moor, prone each instant to give an unnatural and over- 
whelming dimension to objects, that in a more defining light M'ould pass 
unheeded and unfeared. 


246 


transfusion: or, thr 


him of his joy-bestowing thoughts, his glorious meditations, his air-built 
reveries, his pure elastic spirit, and leave him nought in return but eternal 
sorrow and vain regret. 

Madeline’s soul had left this earthly world !— Madeline was dead ! The 
informing spirit of her brother, healthy ajjd entire, had entered her frame, 
and its failing mechanism had recovered a transitory strength; but its 
fevered blood, and disturbed brain, influenced in their turn the stranger 
soul : the dissolution already at work in his new-found abode was delayed ; 
but it paused only in its operations. He felt that the muscles, fibres, and 
nerves, which he animated, would soon cease to obey him ; he sought 
within the recesses of his mind for the only remedy, the power — the spell 
that would restore him to his deserted body. But it came not — and, in its 
stead, weakness and fear; and convulsive gaspings shook yet more the 
errant spirit.. “O for a remedy! for human help, and a kind hand and 
voice to encourage and calm !” Still as he reflected, terror grew— again, 
shaking and trembling in every joint, the form of Madeline arose and 
wrung its hands — “ Help !” cried an unaccustomed voice — “O, help ! Sea- 
ton ! Uncle ! Help!” The idea gave momentary relief. He would seek 
Manvers and tell him all ; and the unshaken intellects of his relative might 
find some means of restoring the physical machinery that now refused to 
obey his will : his despairing soul felt that if some cordial medicine would 
renovate but for a minute the falling fabric he longed to quit, he might re- 
gain thought, memory — the spell, and succeed in transferring his exiled 
spirit to its rightful mansion. 

But let me hurry to the concluding scene of this fatal tragedy. 

The half hour that De Mara had allowed Warner for the prosecution of 
his machinations against the wretched Madeline was w atched by the no- 
bleman with the most feverish anxiety : each moment appeared to him an 
age ; and whatever sound stirred, whatever accent reached his ear, roused 
him to the most painful attention. At length, when endurance seemed to 
be at its worst, an approaching step was heard, and De Mara sprang to the 
door to greet the coming (as he fondly hoped) of Madeline and his agent: 
but he looked for either in vain. He who entered was Manvers. AH pale 
with anxiety, and breathless with ill-conditioned haste, the good old man 
had endeavoured to trace the flight of the guilty Warner. But not once 
had he caught a glimpse of the fugitive. Either the strong and hardy 
frame of the ruffian had enabled him far to outstrip the irresolute pace of 
his enfeebled follower, or else his wily cunning (taught by long experience 
that a circuitous course was the most effectual way to defy pursuit) had 
taken some more intricate and tortuous road to the village, than that adopted 
by the Senior. Be the cause, however, what it might, Manvers soon lost 
all hope of overtaking him. Still, by diligence and determination, there 
was room to expect that the guilty pair, on whose heads the blood of 
Wahrend called aloud for vengeance, might be secured before they could 
effect their escape from Unwalden. With this object in view, Manvers 
hurried to the inn, where awhile before he had seen the carriage stop, and, 
after a hasty word to the host in explanation of his errand, he ascended to 
De Mara’s apartment. 

The count, who had entirely concluded that the step he heard upon the 
stairs was that of Urfort, was taken by surprise at the entry of one who 
was a perfect stranger to him : but before he had time to inquire the mean- 
ing of the intrusion, Manvers exclaimed, “ Count De Mara, you are my 
prisoner!” 

“ Never, while life remains,” cried the startled nobleman ; and he snatch- 
ed from the table, near which he stood, the pistols with which it had been 
Altoz’s care to provide him. 

“ Count,” returned Manvers, “ it is in vain you struggle. Me you may 


orphans of unwalden. 


247 


send to join the murdered Wahrend ; but the whole village is alarmed and 

justice*” beSCt ° n GVery Side * The time is C ° me When you must ans wcr 

“ That is yet to be seen, old man,” exclaimed De Mara, his fury fast 
increasing “ one step nearer, and I fire. Meanwhile safety may chance 
to lie behmd me.” And as he spoke he threw open the bed-room door 
with the intention of making his escape by the back window, before those’ 
whom he imagined to be posted in front, could make good their capture. * 
To the astonishment of Manvers, this action of the count exposed to his 
view the monster W arner, whom he had in vain pursued. But whatever 
might be the old man’s feelings, they were more than equalled by De Mara’s 
surprise, for as he prepared to rush forward to the window of the chamber 
he found it already occupied with the sturdy form of Warner, who, with the 
red box (the contents of which had so excited his admiration) fast grasped 
under his arm, was in the very act of making his escape by that outlet 
through which he had a minute before stealthily obtained ingress in pursuit 
of his booty. 

The whole of this was perceived and interpreted by the count in a tenth 
part of the time that it has occupied in telling ; and as the conviction flashed 
upon his mind, he levelled the pistol which his right hand grasped, and fired. 

A deep-rendered groan from Warner told the result: for a moment he 
tried to clutch the window-frame, but, missing in his attempt, he fell heavily 
backward on the chamber floor, while his right arm still convulsively kept 
possession of the booty, for the sake of which he had made such a desperate 
venture. 


At that very instant a posse of the villagers, headed by the host, rushed 
into the chamber from without, and before the count could recover his self- 
possession, he found himself disarmed and in custody. 

This effected, one of the party advanced for the purpose of lifting Warner 
from the ground, arul to afford such relief as the case might allow. The 
agonies of death were upon him ; but his whole frame seemed to shudder, 
as he perceived the meaning of the attempt ; and, after a moment’s struggle 
with the pangs that scathed him, he exclaimed, in a shriek — “ Away ! and 
touch me not, unless you are so in love with the blood of a dare-all, that 
you needs must dye your hands in the drenching. Away ! I say — and 
stand not between me and my noble patron.” 

“Execrable monster!” muttered De Mara. 

He, who was thus apostrophised, seemed to be fast sinking into annihi- 
lation ; yet, once again, though with a fearful struggle, he summoned his 
expiring spirit to a rally. 

“ I say 1 will see the count. Good gentlemen let him stand near, for 
sight gives way, and I have him not in view.” 

De Mara shook his head, as if in token of disgust, but the dying 
man still continued— “ What ! will he not come ? I have a precious word 
for his comfort. Bid him come, or he loses it for ever.” 

The nobleman, in whom hope was not utterly extinct, was excited by 
these words, and he approached the spot where Warner lay writhing in his 
gore. 

“ Ah !” cried the latter, “ I see you now. Give me your hand.” 

De Mara with an effort complied. 

The villain seized it; and for a minute so fastening was his gripe, that it 
appeared as if he had started forth afresh to his pristine vigour. 

He seized it ; and, deep and loud, burst from him a fit of frightful laughter, 
such as made good men tremble with the thought that something worse than 
human dwelt within that bosom. 

“Ah, ha, ha!” he exclaimed; “do we indeed shake hands at last? 
Why, this is a friendly parting. Gentlemen, I owe my patron a good turn 


24S 


transfusion: or, the 


for the bullet that racks me to the core ; and I will pay him. I introduce 
you to the murderer of Wahrend — to the would-be seducer of Madeline — 
of my daughter.” 

“Your daughter!” cried De Mara; but what further he would have 
said was checked by Warner suddenly quitting hold of his hand, and once 
again sinking to the ground. For a short minute it was as though he were 
dead : — yet not so. The last struggle came, and fearful was the exhibition. 
Groan succeeded groan, each more death-inscribed than the last ; — the 
huge and iron sinews of his body palpitated, as it were, with sickening 
velocity ; and his nervous frame rolled upon the floor in miserable torture. 

“Devils! Devils!” he shouted, goaded by agony to madness — “why 
help you not? — One stab — oh, for mercy, one heart-stab to end this thrall ! 
No ! all around me are demons, and there is no Christian mercy left. Ah ! 
now I see why none have mercy. Look! look! — their forms change. 
Yonder stands Agnes ready with a thousand whips to lacerate this flesh — 
too suffering already ; and there by her side stand both her parents, while 
Manvers beckons them this way: — they look — O God ! how pale and 
wo-enthralled they look! — And there— no, I will not see her! — Take 
Deboos away, lest she conjure to my sight her uncle’s corpse, as it lay 
bleeding in the hall of his casino. Why do you let her grasp my throat, and 
choke my very breathing ? — I thought strangling was more easy. What ! 
Madeline and Albert too ! Do they come to curse their father? Do they 
curse me ? — I curse them ! Yes — with this last throe — all — each — world — 
mankind — l curse!” 

So died the fiend. 

Those that looked on felt as if they were indeed cursed in having to 
witness such a death. The honesty of their natures shuddered at words of 
such inhuman import ; and the bystanders crowded far away into a distant 
corner, as if with one common impulse of avoiding nearer contact with so 
foul a being. But, whatever the disgust they felt, they could not help listen- 
ing with harrowing interest to his dying exclamations ; and so entirely were 
they absorbed by them that no one heard the stoppage of a carriage at the 
door of the auberge, or was conscious of the entrance of one who listened 
with deepest pain to Warner’s condemnation of the count, and with engross- 
ing horror to his still more sweeping condemnation of himself. 

He who had thus arrived was Altoz. The earliest impulse of the count, 
who was the first to perceive him after death had closed the imprecations 
of Urfort, was to advance towards his former friend, as if for a moment he 
had forgotten the inquisitorial errand that had brought him to Unwalden. 
But if it were so, one glance at the expression of the chevalier’s counte- 
nance was sufficient to bring back to his recollection the manner in 
which they had parted ; and the one instant of pleasure he had derived from 
perceiving the entrance of Altoz was speedily overwhelmed in the considera- 
tion that he, too, was there to help to crush him beyond the reach of hope. 

The chevalier’s surprise at the scene that offered itself to his gaze need 
not be pourtrayed. The words that he had heard fall from Warner, ere he 
lay a corpse on the blood-stained floor, and the conscious shrinking of De 
Mara from all men’s eyes, easily led him to the conclusion, that the cause 
of Wahrend’s death being discovered, was the meaning of the crowd that 
filled the chamber, and that the time was near at hand when the Frenchman 
would have to render an account at a much more powerful tribunal than 
that of which he was the accredited representative. 

While he conned these circumstances in his mind, he stood for a moment 
irresolute ; but, that elapsed, he drew nearer to the nobleman and spoke. 
“Count de Mara,” cried he, “ you know the business that has brought me 
to Unwalden. I will not mention it publicly, as it might tend to your de- 
triment. It is sufficient for me to demand whether you arc prepared to 


ORPHANS OF UN WALDEN. 


240 


afford that explanation which I was commissioned by my friends to require 
from you this morning ?” 

“ Oh, Altoz ! Altoz !” exclaimed the prisoner in low tone, “let this be at 
another time, I entreat. For one short hour forget that I am under ban, and 
assist me through the fearful difficulty in which you find me placed. Good 
gentlemen,” added he, raising his voice, “ this is the chevalier Altoz — a 
Spaniard of high rank — a most responsible nobleman! I beseech you to 
take his guarantee for my forthcoming at the necessary time.” 

“ Count,” cried Altoz, in a whisper, “ for your own sake I entreat you to 
be silent. I have already done more in your behalf than I can justify to 
myself, or those who sent me.” 

“ Oh ! Altoz,” returned the Frenchman, “let me entreat you ! Remember 
our thousand pledges of friendship ! Remember our plighted bonds of union ! 
And will you noio desert me? Will you suffer De Mara — your friend, De 
Mara, to be dragged to a common dungeon — perchance to a common scaf- 
fold ? Great God ! can you hear these words, and still refuse me ?” 

The chevalier was prevented the pain of further refusal by the magistrate 
of the village (who by this time had joined the party assembled in the cham- 
ber) approaching the spot where they were standing apart in converse. 

“Sir,” said he to the chevalier, “you will doubtless excuse my inter- 
ference, when you understand that my duty requires it. The Count de 
Mara is a prisoner under the most serious charge ; and I may not — I must 
not permit any one whatever to hold communication with him previous to 
his examination.” 

Altoz bowed, and seemed as if he were about to withdraw, but he was 
interrupted by the count, whose every action appeared instinct with the 
most feverish — nay, cowardly — anxiety. 

“ For the sake of Heaven, and of mercy, leave me not, good Altoz !” he 
exclaimed ; — “ 1 look around, and all men’s eyes save yours are fierce and 
angry. And you, sir,” continued he, turning to the magistrate, “ can it be 
indeed your duty to refuse this gentleman’s guarantee ? In all honour, in 
all honesty — he will be answerable for my appearance at the needful time : 
—I myself will swear to be forthcoming.” 

The chevalier felt that it was time to speak out, for, by the busy whispers 
that ran round the apartment, he could perceive that the propriety of his own 
detention was in agitation. “Count de Mara,” said he, solemnly, “ I know 
not what authority this gentleman may have to receive sureties for your 
manumission ; but thus much out of respect for myself 1 am bound to say 
— that one of those sureties I can never consent to become. My task here 
will be performed when I shall have informed you, that the explanation 
which has been demanded of you not having been given, I am authorised 
in the name of the Knot to pronounce your perpetual and irrevocable ex- 
pulsion from their body.” 

“ Is it so ?” cried the count, rendered desperate by the manner in which 
he found himself becoming more and more involved in the overbearing con- 
sequences of his design upon the unfortunate Madeline. “Is it so, indeed ? 
And has it been for such friends as these, De Mara, that you have dared 
the world’s censure, and good men’s curse ?— No, not their curse, for it is 
only bad men who curse. Has it been for such hollow companions that 
you have sacrificed the pursuit of all that is good and all that is admirable ?” 

“ Sir,” interrupted the magistrate, “ my office requires that I should im- 
mediately see you placed in custody.” 

“Custody!” iterated De Mara : — “ Ah, now it is coming! Now judg- 
ment and revenge are fastening on me, and my yet, unsullied name will in 
a little while be enrolled in a jail-list to challenge the finger of scorn, and 
the hatred of honesty. But I will not go ! — I will not be dragged to contam- 
ination !” 


250 


TRANSFUSION : OR, TIIF. 


“ Stand forward, men !” exclaimed the magistrate authoritatively, on 
hearing the count’s last words: — “one of you open the door that leads to 
the stairs, and let the rest seize the prisoner.^ 

“ Off, off, you ministers of pollution !” shouted De Mara : — “ oh, gracious 
Heaven ! is there not one in all the world yet left to side with me ? Alas ! 
for Madeline — where is she ? Does she , too, leave me to my disgrace?” 

Even as he spoke, light fleet steps were heard on the stairs, and the rustle 
of a woman’s dress. De Mara started, and every eye turned towards the 
door, as the form of Madeline entered, tottering and feeble — her face pale 
and wan — her eyes alone speaking life and energy. Manvers uttered an 
exclamation of pity and terror ; but at so dread a moment, despite her altered 
looks, joy danced upon De Mara’s heart. He was reviled, deserted by all 
— by all save the dear fond being he had so cruelly betrayed : but she was 
true — was his. He knew what woman’s clinging fondness is ! He knew 
the sex’s fidelity — its firm adherence to the loved object in danger and 
misery — here there was a friend. Her entreaties might bring Seaton to his 
side, or her woman’s wit find means of freedom for him. Oh ! well he 
knew that the passionately-loving girl would incur any risk — endure every 
hardship for the sake of liberating the object of her tenderest affections from 
death. Besides, DeMara loved — selfish and profligate as he was, he adored 
the beauty — he worshipped the true and loving creature whom he now be- 
lieved to stand before him. Gladness lighted up his eyes, and his plan was 
already formed. Every promise, every sacrifice should be made, but he 
would win this angel-guest to hover near his steps — to wait on him — to plan, 
to execute his liberation. 

The form of Madeline stood motionless — her eyes turned from one object 
to another — she saw Seaton, and stretched out her hand with a smile, while 
De Mara approaching, in the soft sweet voice that had before had despot- 
influence of the maiden, he whispered — “ This is kind, my Madeline ! you 
are here, and all is well. I fear no danger — 1 know no harm while you are 
present. Dearest Madeline, forsake me not !” 

“I will not” — such words issued from the orphan’s lips, while a bitter 
smile curled them — “ I will not forsake you, De Mara! Man of many 
crimes, 1 will be near you to the last, and my voice shall pronounce your 
doom !” 

There was something jarring in the tone, something in her kindling, 
angry gaze that startled De Mara. Yet he was prepared for her indigna- 
tion and reproaches ; and his wish was to soothe — to show how all was 
changed — to bring back soft-yielding love to her subdued heart. “ Ah, 
dearest!” he exclaimed, “ the doom you pronounce is all that can weigh 
on De Mara’s soul ! The false accusations, the bolts and bars of these 
mistaken men, even if they could wreak all their power, are nothing to me. 
Do you speak to me, Madeline — and be true to me !” 

He watched the changes of her countenance, and as she looked inqui- 
ringly around, he replied to the questioning expression of her face, “You 
may indeed wonder, sweetest, to find me thus surrounded — a prisoner ! 
But do not fear : these men are powerless ; they accuse me of I know not 
what — of a duel — of Wahrend’s unhappy death ; — but even in this low- 
thoughted republic of Geneva, the code of honour must find partizans.” 

“Honour!” articulated the being whom he addressed ; “Oh, praise 
the honour of De Mara ! So, it is discovered — it is known ; and my mur- 
dered friend will be avenged !’’ 

Every one looked now astonished and inquisitive, while De Mara, in a 
voice of reproach, exclaimed — “Madeline! my Madeline!” 

“ Speak not that honoured name !” replied the other, in solemn accents ; 

‘ dare not turn your thoughts on the much-injured one ! I will not here 
speak of Madeline’s wrongs — of your treachery — your coward falsehoods. 


OSfHANS OF UNYVALDEtf. 


251 

p The tears — the heart-pangs of the miserable orphan, are heavily counted 
against you : but I speak not of those ; I must, while these feeble, failing 
organs permit, perform another, an imperious duty. Gentlemen ” 

All turned to listen; — her ghastly pale countenance— her shivering, 
trembling limbs, excited pity, but there was an expression of solemn ma- 
jesty in her eye, and if her voice seemed weak, yet the articulation was 
clear though slow, and all listened aYve-struck and eager. 

“ Gentlemen, hear me ! My fate, I know not w hat it is or will be — it 
hangs by a thread — 1 almost feel as if I were about to die, But I wiil per- 
form one duty, and leave to pitying Heaven the consummation of my hap- 
less destiny. Gentlemen, Count de Mara is a murderer ! 1 speak of the 

thing I saw — of the words I heard ; I received the last w'ords of the assas- 
sinated Wahrend. The count’s servant w r as present at the duel — the true- 
hearted Swiss trusted to a nobleman’s faith, and was content with this one 
witness — a fellow perjured — suborned — the vile instrument of his vile mas- 
ter’s will. Wahrend was murdered ! He died by no fair w ound ! In cold 
blood those two friends plunged the sword into his heart ! Believe me, for 
I saw' — I knoYv — let not the murderer escape — let retribution be his ! Sea- 
ton, my uncle ! — listen — mark my words ! draw near — oh, help •’* 

A thousand times, as the being before him spoke, De Mara w'ould have 
interrupted. The solemn voice overbore his passionate exclamations ; but 
this voice grew more feeble — the form of Madeline sank upon the floor. 
Manvers rushed to her side, and with fond and tender exclamations tried 
to cal! back her fainting spirits. A smile illuminated the countenance on 
which he gazed ! — the hand of the dying one softly pressed his. “ Too 
late !” murmured the broken, but still sweet voice — “ your help is too late ! 
And so best! I would not survive events so horrible! My uncle, I am 
satisfied to die.” 

‘‘Say not those words !” cried De Mara, forgetting her cruel denuncia- 
tions — her, what appeared to him, insane or false assertions — his crimes 
and dangers : — forgetting all, De Mara rushed forward and knelt beside 
the form that lay gasping, fainting on the floor. “ Die not. my Madeline ! 
O live ! Even while I die, thy victim, lovely and injured Madeline, live J” 
The eyes of the lost one unclosed : they were fixed on De Mara. He 
could not mistake the glance of hatred, of deep and eternal abhorrence, 
that they darted on him. “ I die thy victim ; count, my death w'ill also be 
numbered in the list of thy crimes !” * 

“ O Madeline, cruel girl, overwhelm me not,” cried De Mara, frantic 
at the very thought that he had lost her love, even in death ; “ recall those 
words ! O Madeline, live, or, dying, pity — pity the miserable wretch 
before yon ! Despite all, be mine — be true ! 1 shall expiate all soon — 

the scaffold— the block! O Madeline ! to these you bring me! Yet 1 
forgive — and do you forgive ; — bless me, even now !” 

He strove to take her wan lifeless hand — ah! how tenderly even in 
death and horror had the fond, faithful Madeline replied to his adjurations, 
whose earnestness and truth even excited pity in Manvers ! But the 
masked Albert had feelings too high wrought; — the death of Wahrend — 
of his beloved sister, still excited his keenest sorrow ; his own wretched 
destiny stung him with despair. De Mara’s touch excited uncontrollable 
abhorrence — the living spirit re-animated with one other effort the dissolv- 
ing frame, and, as with lightning flash, one moment of power was granted 
— the hand was snatched away ; — the eyes, the lips, the whole countenance 
expressed unutterable detestation — the voice pronounced “ My curse is on 
thee !” and the form sunk on the floor heavy and dull — the soul w'as gone — 
Albert’s soul had fled the ungeniai dungeon it had so madly sought — and 
the form of Madeline lay dead. 

The task is finished — the labour at an end ! We cannot dilate on the 


252 


transfusion: or, the orphans of unwalden. 


revulsion of horror that agonized De Mara, when he saw his hapless victim 
expiring at his feet. He believed that madness had lately animated her — 
thus only could he account for her words'; but he had brought her to this 
— and she was dead! The death of Wahrend sat heavy on his soul ; 
but with burden a thousandfold did the fate of the beloved Madeline 
oppress him. He felt that however innocent in absolute act, he was a 
twice-told assassin — he was satisfied to pay the penalty of his crimes ; and 
here we let fall the veil over his fate. For little pleasure it would be to 
follow the guilty nobleman from Unwalden to his dungeon — from his dun- 
geon to his trial — from his trial to the scaffold, where all was expiated ; 
even though remorse most bitter, and heart-felt repentance did some small 
grace to his dying hours. 

Little reward would it be to the historian of this sad tale, to tell how the 
miserable Manvers was led from life towards death, till those who looked 
on him thought that they beheld the thin unembodied genie of w r o and 
wretchedness, rather than the mortal victim of their peace-denying energy. 

He had clasped the dead form of his erring lost niece to his heart ; he had 
endeavoured to restore vitality ; and when he found all his effoits vain, 
and was forced to entertain the conviction that she w'as indeed no more, 
his thoughts reverted to Albert. Where was he ? Why had he deserted 
his sister ? What would be his anguish on finding that he had lost her 
forever? Manvers left the corpse of poor Madeline to the care of the 
women of the village, who gathered w’eeping round ; and with broken un- 
certain gait directed his steps to the Single Cottage. He looked intently, 
as he proceeded, to discover w hether Albert was approaching ; desirous, 
however sad the task, to be the first to inform him of his miserable loss. 
He reached the threshold of the cottage — all was silent W'ithin ; and the 
darkness that reigned in the room spoke only of emptiness. Manvers was 
about to turn away when an object caught his eye : he rushed to the win- 
dow — tore back the shading curtains — dashed open the shutters, and then 
with a shriek recognised the lifeless body of Albeit lying at his feet. 

* * * * 

The orphans were buried beside their mother in the village churchyard. 
An impenetrable mystery concealed the cause of the double death. * But 
they were gone ; and that sufficed for Manvers. His days and nights 
were spent beside their graves. The children of the village beheld him 
w’ith reverential terror : — the wfcmen strove to console him, and to with- 
draw him from the abodes of death. He answered their solicitations by 
tears only : and still the shades of evening, the dark night-dew’s, the sun, 
the tempest, and the frost, find him beside the graves of those he loved 
and lost. 


* 


THE END. 



















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